


expectations of lightning

by Nythtak



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Extreme slow burn, John favourtism but they all get their time, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rook's boatload of trauma, Slow Burn, Some angst, Unhealthy Relationships, amoral!Deputy, but no non- or dub-con, mercenary!Deputy, vaguely crackish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 149,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nythtak/pseuds/Nythtak
Summary: Rook joins the Hope County Sheriff’s Department without much in the way of expectations. A fun little vacation from his regular day job, and a chance to heal up from that bullet wound and a fractured leg.What he isn’t expecting is the Seeds, the Project at Eden’s Gate, and the chaos that follows when you point a bored, highly trained killer at a fanatical cult determined to show him the right path.Can’t say he’s complaining.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Comments: 79
Kudos: 236
Collections: Far Cry 5





	1. Chapter 1

Rook would love to say he’s prepared for all this. That he did his research like he would for any job, dug into things until he had a clear idea of just what was going on in the supposedly peaceful (and bland) Hope County. Maybe even got a proper file together, learnt about every minute detail and rumour. Anything, you know, significant that might be happening.

But that’d be a huge fucking lie, so. Best he acknowledge that now, sitting in a helicopter across from a cocky U.S. Marshal arguing with the Sheriff over the upcoming arrest of a cult leader, right as they fly past a towering statue of the man in question.

Because yeah, cult leaders. That’s a thing he deals with now, apparently.

‘Small-town deputies never see anything interesting’ his _ass._

* * *

It starts when Rook gets shot.

Now, that isn’t something all that new to him. Comes with the job. You shoot at people, they tend to shoot back - if you don’t kill them first. He’s usually pretty good at that part. Good enough to get paid to do it for a living.

So when he gets shot, he’s not all that shocked. He’s about due some bad luck after having such a good run. Several jobs have gone by without him getting even a scratch, not one camera catching sight of him, and no pissed off guards, hitmen, soldiers or other miscellaneous grunts sent after him. He built up enough cash to blow it all on some real nice equipment, proper fancy with all the bells and whistles he could want. Felt like a kid in a candy shop, checking out everything that Denise had to offer and buying out half her stash to test out against a couple of groups who’ve pissed him off. One for claiming a kill of his as theirs, the other for interrupting a job and earning him a shiny new scar across his hip.

Still high from all that, he’s a bit more reckless than he usually is on the next job. Idiot. Should know better by now, he does, he just- lets it all get to him sometimes. Forgets about being patient, being slow and cautious, gives in to the rush of putting a bullet in the head of one target after another, tackling a man to the floor and choking the life from him, feeling the rapid heartbeat against his hands and fire-bright panic in dying eyes-

So yeah. He totally deserves to get shot, honestly.

The bullet hits the meat of his shoulder, lodges in without hitting anything too important because hey, even in situations like this he’s a lucky bastard at the end of the day. Well, he still fractures his left leg in his escape - plus a bunch of fun bruises from a roll down a flight of stairs after ducking a spray of gunfire - but he’s alive, which is more than he can say for the rest of the guys in the building once he blows it to hell and back.

He’s been shot before, injured plenty of times. But in a career like his? It isn’t a great idea to go back into the field when you’re still technically recovering, not just to heal but to get back into shape. He’s impatient, though, itchy and restless after just a few weeks cooped up in the California beach house.

Now, usually he loves the place, thrives in the stupidly overpriced decor with its sharp, sleek edges and stark colours, the one wall full of postcards from every place he’s ever visited (well, that had postcards to buy) and the crates of weaponry he keeps in the basement. Oh, and the fucking huge bed and luxurious mattress that cost more than the average car.

It’s a great place to hole up in for a while whenever he’s stateside, whether to take a break or brush up on any skills he’s been neglecting, or train up in something new and interesting. It’s just-

He’s really bored.

Insanely bored.

Contemplating robbing a bank for the fun of it because at least it’ll be something to do, bored.

He’s slumped back in a chair channel-surfing, flicking through each one so fast that the words he catches sound like some bizarre run-on sentence. Pauses abruptly, familiarity stopping him. It’s just some Western. A remake of something better, ripping off more than one of the greats in the genre.

But he’s not really thinking about the film itself.

He’s thinking of afternoons where everything got too much, too loud, and he’d climb up the fire escape and across one, two windowsills until he was at Miss Maria’s apartment, the one with a window she always kept unlocked for him, even in their neighbourhood. He’d knock twice, just to be polite, but she said he could come in whenever he liked so he did.

And it took time but the second the muddled smell of too many scented candles hit him he was already losing a bit of the tension in his shoulders, uncurling so he wasn’t trying to make himself look so small anymore.

Often she’d be there, warm smiles and quick signs that he spent months learning how to understand (the pride and gratitude in her eyes and the gentle ruffle of his hair was more than worth the effort it took to convince an older kid to teach him, paying him back in errands he wasn’t dumb enough to think were completely legal). She’d make tea, cabinets overflowing with more types than he could count with a new blend every week. Ask how school was going, about his friends, and on days when arthritis made it too painful for her to talk he’d pick up the slack, rambling on about everything and nothing until his mouth was dry and his voice gone hoarse.

And on days when neither of them could talk, when he had a new bruise colouring his cheek or flinched at every creaking floorboard and heavy footstep in the hallway outside, they’d sit on the blue, overstuffed monstrosity of a couch and pass hours watching Westerns.

Miss Maria liked the older ones the best, but Rook was happy to watch any of them, on the edge of his seat during every action scene no matter how many times he’d seen it before. He’d be utterly absorbed to the point that he could forget about everything else, about himself, for a couple of hours.

He’d told her once, with the utter certainty of a nine-year-old kid, that he was gonna be a sheriff when he grew up. In his mind, being a sheriff was different from being a cop. Everyone knew you didn’t go to a cop unless you wanted to get in trouble yourself, that they didn’t give a crap about anyone around the neighbourhood. But sheriffs were different. Sheriffs cared about justice, about getting the bad guy. Plus they got a cool hat.

(His back up plan was a bounty hunter. He didn’t know how to ride a horse which meant cowboy was out, so bounty hunter seemed the next best thing.)

Miss Maria hadn’t laughed at him, but she’d definitely looked amused (it left him pouting for hours). On his birthday she got him a stetson and a shiny plastic sheriff badge, and he’d cried like a baby.

He grew out of that phase, of course. The real world makes an appearance and all that. But it was a nice dream for a kid like him.

So two decades later, why is he thinking about that dumb kid’s dream?

* * *

Turns out, the Hope County Sheriff’s Department in Montana is looking for a new Junior Deputy.

And they’re desperate enough to not look too closely at an application from Michael Rook, to question the police academy he claims to have attended or the volunteer firefighting he mentions in the interview (which is true, he did do that for a few months, but it wasn’t as Michael Rook). They don’t even call up the fake references he gives.

He gets to the department, has his interview in a diner off the side of the main road, and at the end of it Sheriff Whitehorse gives him a steady, tired look and asks when he can start.

It’s too easy. Even the background check is- well, he knows Amanda’s work is good but they don’t even try to dig a little deeper into him. They don’t check out the couple fake social media profiles he has up, or the records he’s got to show he’s a real live person with a medical history and a high school certificate and everything. They just do the interview, show him around the department - it’s fucking tiny, nine people including the Sheriff - and then give him a few listings for houses around the area up for sale or rent.

And that’s that. Rook’s a deputy now.

Standing in his motel room, cleaning up and putting new bandages on the bullet wound so it won’t scar so bad, he briefly wonders if this is a good idea. It’s something to do, and there is a little bit of childhood giddiness at being a fucking deputy.

Then there’s a sharper edge of the challenge in pretending to be one of them when he’s really the kind of guy they’d arrest without question, in keeping his injuries and his training hidden. Because as far as these people know, he’s a fresh-faced rookie who’s never seen a second of real action in his life.

It should be fun.

* * *

Well, it sure as hell isn’t boring.

The first few weeks, yeah, they aren’t the most exciting. He’s mostly just figuring out how he’s playing this, what kind of person Michael Rook is. Friendly, he decides to go for, but quiet. The type to let other people do all the talking, not a doormat but someone easy to be around, who isn’t a threat.

That last part is a bit harder. Rook isn’t a small guy, taller than everyone in the department which makes it easy to loom without realising he’s doing it. He isn’t _bulky_ exactly, but even a couple of months of rest didn’t completely atrophy all his hard-earned muscle, not once he started packing it back on again, and he can’t do much for the scars littering his body.

Gloves help with his hands, with the rough callouses and cords of scar tissue on his knuckles, the split over his palm where he grabbed the blade of a knife to stop it from going into his throat. Keeping covered up isn’t the most fun thing to do in the Montana heat, but he’s been in hotter places in more layers, so he deals.

He laughs off the deep cut through his eyebrow, just missing his right eye, as a collision with a bookcase rather than the shrapnel wound it is, his forearm having blocked the worst of it. Keeps a thin, long-sleeved shirt on under his uniform so when he changes in the locker room nothing shows, because sure, he could explain the burns sprawling across his hip and lower back easy enough, but scars from bullets and knives are harder. Plastic surgery took care of the most distinctive, but he had to prioritise the worst ones - and the scars he earned back in his soldier days were too old to do much about by the time he had the money and inclination.

He gets good at masking his slight limp, avoids putting too much pressure on his left leg. It’s pretty much healed (in his opinion) so he gets by well enough, does all the exercises and everything, Oliver will be so proud. Isn’t like it’s much of a problem anyway, not when he spends most of his time on paperwork duty. Another deputy, appropriately named Pratt, drops a stack on his desk that first day with a cheery grin and a “Welcome to the team!” slap on the back, and keeps the pile topped up over the next few weeks.

But hey, gives him a chance to settle on the changes he’s made to his handwriting to fit Michael Rook. It ends up nice and neat, cursive with little loops in the ‘L’s and ‘Y’s and ‘F’s, small letters that’re easy to read.

Simple, neat and easy - that fits, he decides. Michael Rook is that kind of guy. He probably worked real hard in elementary school to get his writing so nice, helped along by attentive parents who weren’t off their face on heroin and cheap booze every night.

The main deputy on dispatch - “Call me Nancy, no need to be so formal!” - keeps him company most days, a fountain of gossip which she’s more than happy to share with a willing audience. Rook doesn’t have to do much, just nod and hum in a few places, and Nancy makes sure he knows about everyone and their grandmother by the time he’s a week in.

The only people she skirts around, that everyone does once he starts paying attention, are the members of the local cult. Project at Eden’s Gate, a doomsday cult whose members have the not so affectionate nickname ‘peggies’, and celebrate their right to keep and bear arms with enthusiasm. They showed up a few years back in droves, harmless enough according to anyone who’ll talk. Then they started rapidly buying up land, started arming their people and aggressively recruiting more, and now no one is willing to go near them. Not even the police.

Yeah, somehow that didn’t get brought up during the interview. How strange.

And now he’s looking, it gets more noticeable. Flyers up all over town with the cult’s symbol on it; a black, eight-pointed cross on white. Reports of missing persons that the department won’t touch, won’t look into past a cursory check that goes nowhere. Farms and ranches and stores bought up by the cult, toeing the line of legal when more than one owner comes in complaining of threats. Whole patches of land Rook can’t get anywhere close to without seeing cultists watching the area, but even from a distance he can hear construction work going on in some places.

Trucks and vans come through the county in the middle of the night, taking backroads with their lights off. When he gets curious enough to take a look inside one he finds - predictably, maybe - crates of guns and ammunition. Another is packed with food - fruits, meat and vegetables, honey, salt, oats, pasta - and there’s no way he’s seeing even half of what’s coming in.

Then there’s also, you know, the hundred-foot tall statue of the man in charge of all this.

He’s pretty sure that isn’t legal, and he’s got no clue how no one outside of the county has commented on the thing yet. It isn’t exactly subtle. Seems the sort of story to gain a spot on the news, if only for the “hey, look at this crazy guy!” value of it.

(Yeah, he should’ve noticed it before coming here. But the station isn’t exactly in the heart of the county so it isn’t until he starts looking around for a house that he sees it for the first time. For a full minute he just gapes at it, jaw slack as his car slows to a halt at the side of the road.

Then he takes a picture and sends it to Denise, gets a scattering of exclamation points and prayer hands in response. In a great demonstration of self-control, he doesn’t climb to the top of it and take a selfie to send, too.)

* * *

They’re such a small team that when U.S. Marshal Burke blusters in with his federal arrest warrant for Joseph Seed, Rook is brought along despite still being on probation. He’s on shift, and that seems to be all that matters when he’s pulled into the meeting room, photos of Joseph Seed and his siblings pinned to a board.

The plan - if it can be called that - is to take a helicopter to Seed’s compound, grab their guy, and send him off with the marshal. Rook would love to point out how stupid it is, to go in to arrest the leader of a blatantly militant group who’ve already shown a disregard for the law, with nothing but a county sheriff, a few deputies, and a hard-on for justice - or more likely a promotion.

But Michael Rook doesn’t question his superiors, he listens and does his best and tries not to look nervous as he stares out the helicopter window.

Whitehorse catches the restless shifting of his leg, going by the reassuring look he shoots his way. It’s a weak look, weighed down by doubt and worry, and it doesn’t get much better when Burke goes over any relevant details one more time.

Nothing especially mind-blowing despite Seed being under investigation for a long while now, just family history and patchy background information on what went on in Rome, Georgia before the Seeds came to Hope County. When it comes to what they’ll actually be dealing with, it’s obvious Burke is going in blinder than they are.

And then Rook gets to watch a video of Seed gouging out a man’s eyes.

You know, if Rook was the newbie deputy he’s pretending to be, that’d be pretty demoralising. As it is he’s mostly just impressed at how little blood and gore Seed got on himself, especially with that white shirt of his. Takes some skill. Or practice.

They lose signal when they cross over the Henbane region. Radio still functions, but no phone calls are getting out of this place. Always a good sign. The Sheriff passes it off as them being too far out. Rook has his doubts. The population is high enough that there’s cell towers around pretty consistently, only cutting out in the barren areas of the Henbane and a good portion of the northern and western parts of the Whitetails.

If they’ve been blocked by the cultists…well, it says a lot.

Says they know how to use tech, strange as that is for a typical small town cult. Says they’re happy and willing to use it, to go as far as blocking the signal for a huge region, isolating themselves and the people around from the outside world even more than they already are. Says they’ve got people who know their shit, says they’ve planned for this, for needing to cut the area off like they have.

Doing all that isn’t rocket science, but it does show a degree of preparation and willingness to follow through. Their leader hasn’t even been arrested yet. How are they gonna react when a U.S. Marshal shows up with his arrest warrant and armed escort?

The Sheriff starts trying to convince Burke to reconsider. Won’t work, not with a guy like Burke, all brash bull-headedness without a wick of caution. He’s got a lot riding on this, enough to push past any warning given. And the contempt he so obviously holds for a backwoods county sheriff isn’t helping. Safe to bet that this is a bit of a personal project for him, something to help him advance in the ranks, because if there was a higher up involved they’d surely send more than four people to deal with an armed cult.

Rook keeps his gaze on the forest below as they talk back and forth, vaguely aware of the conversation with Nancy over the radio, and Pratt’s teasing comment. No telltale glints between the trees, or shapes moving that look human and organised, but it’s hard to tell at this time of night when every shadow looks like it could be something more. Made worse by the fog that’s rolled in, reducing the hills and valleys to smokey blurs at anything under tree level, stifled lights shining through here and there but not much else.

It isn’t tension, not exactly. The warmth building under his skin, sparking across the pads of his fingers and loosening his posture into something less Michael, more Rook. Eagerness, maybe. Curiosity.

This could be easy. Straightforward. That’d be the kind of thing to fit Michael Rook’s world. They get their guy, get him out, and then he’s Burke’s problem to deal with. Maybe the cult will dissolve without their leader, and Hope County will go back to the peaceful place it’s supposed to be, where the worst crimes are whatever idiot idea the locals have cooked up after spending too many weeks with nothing but their thoughts and a few litres of gasoline. Maybe it’ll go like Burke is imagining it. Like the Sheriff is hoping.

Rook lets himself hope for something a little- more.

The compound comes into view, first the white church and then, well. The cult have done some remodelling since that video was taken. High barbed-wire fences block off the buildings inside, cutting the entry points down to a single gate. There are several short buildings, and the one closest has a radio tower and speaker system hooked up to a pole beside it.

The couple of fires they’ve got going glare bright, illuminating the people milling around them and flickering off of the guns they carry. Even from up here, he can make out several rifles and shotguns. At least every other person is carrying a weapon of some sort. All of them ready and waiting - expectant.

Looks like someone got warned ahead of time. So much for showing up in the middle of the night to surprise Seed and grab him before he makes a run for it.

“This is a bad idea,” Hudson says, low and nervous, and yeah, she probably isn’t wrong there.

Pratt sets the helicopter down within the compound. One last call to dispatch, directing Nancy to send in help if no one hears from them within fifteen minutes. If that’s necessary it’ll be too late for them, National Guard or not, and by the looks of it the Sheriff knows it too. Even Burke is grim-faced now, doing some final equipment checks with more gravity than Rook’s seen from him since he arrived.

Keep your guns holstered. Rook wants to laugh at the Sheriff’s order, watching the cultists eye them with hostility and weapons in tight grips. Some just have baseball bats or crowbars, but plenty of them have proper guns, none of them safely holstered away. Civilian grade for the most part, but despite lack of training they’ve got numbers on their side. When he spots a guy with a fucking flamethrower Hudson stops looking quite so impressive with her shotgun.

Which, also, doesn’t seem that great an idea. Bit blatant. If you’re gonna give one of them a shotgun, at least let them all wear something more substantial than their regular uniforms. The budget can make room for some bulletproof vests, can’t it? Bodies are cheap, but it’ll cost more to replace all four of them.

Rook lets his hand settle near his service pistol, draws his expression with trepidation like Michael would be showing, and feels utterly under-dressed compared to the cultists. Some of them even have ammunition slung over their shoulders; it’s a whole look they’re rocking, full-on departure from what’s socially acceptable, and you have to hand it to them - they’ve got a real style going here.

Go big or go home, right?

They walk through the white gate - _Church of Eden’s Gate_ reads the metal arch - and men with AK-47s and tattoos of the cult’s symbol on their foreheads get to their feet and drift closer. Women, too, wearing beige jumpers with the symbol in bold red, just as armed. Nice to know this is an equal opportunity cult.

Aaand they’re locking the gate behind them. Always a good sign.

Surprisingly, they aren’t stopped on their way to the church. It’s doubtful these people fear the law all that much, not with how they’ve been carrying on and what they’ve gotten away with. And Rook has to bite back a smile, because he can hear singing coming from the church, a hymn, and yeah, they’re absolutely going to arrest a preacher during a sermon. Isn’t like there could be any better timing that might be a teensy bit less provocative, right?

What a clusterfuck.

The church doors have words carved into it, and he pays more attention to that than the Sheriff’s last minute directions.

_Revelations 1:8. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty._

Of course it’s Revelations. That shit is like catnip to doomsday cults.

“You’ll be fine,” Hudson says, as if this isn’t practically the first time she’s spoken a direct word to him since a distant welcome back when he arrived, aside from offering him a coffee during the briefing. Rook makes sure to send her a small smile, doesn’t bother questioning why the fucking rookie is getting sent into the lion’s den whilst she stays out here.

Which, again, seems dumb. Sure, have someone to watch their backs - good idea. Same with keeping Pratt at the helicopter, ready to take off with a moment’s notice. Less smart when you consider how many cultists there are, how fucking easy it would be to overwhelm two deputies, leaving the remaining lucky bastards trapped inside a church in the middle of enemy territory.

It doesn’t get much better once they’re actually in the church. The singing stops, and a man starts to speak.

“Something is coming. You can feel it, can’t you?” he’s saying, voice low and calm and confident. It’s a nice voice, rising with each step they take forwards, growing in force even as it retains that smooth control and ease.

“We are creeping toward the edge. And there will be a reckoning. That is why we started the Project, because we know what happens next.”

The pews are filled with cultists, just as armed in here as they are outside. The part of Rook that spent years dutifully attending Sunday mass on the days his mom could manage it frowns a little at the disrespect. This may be a cult, but this place is still supposed to be a church. He doesn’t hold much stock in faith, in a God he’s never been able to make himself fully believe in. Doesn’t mean he can’t disapprove for his mom’s sake, if nothing else.

“They will come. They will try to take from us, take our guns, take our freedom. Take our faith.”

The cultists stand as they pass them by, attention shifting from the preacher - a shirtless Joseph Seed, the sins carved into his skin on proud display, tattoos and jeans and not much like any priest or pastor Rook’s ever seen - to the outsiders in their midst. Expressions turn from reverence to anger, to hate, and Rook stays aware of them all but he keeps his eyes on Seed because he knows how this works. They won’t do anything until he gives the word.

“We will not _let_ them.”

Burke is getting antsy, straining against the Sheriff’s paper-thin authority. Seed’s accusing words aren’t helping, thrown at the three of them with increasing fervour, a righteous heat that’s still so tightly controlled, aimed.

“We will not let their _greed,_ or their immorality or depravity hurt us anymore.”

Rook keeps his steps slow, keeps the rigid tension in his shoulders obvious and shifts his stance into something natural to a cop. Braced like someone only used to firing in on a shooting range, never on the actual field where every second is a race against who gets to survive to see another day.

He can’t be sloppy in this because there’s eyes on him now, not just the cultists but a man off to the side who all but screams military, the red hair and old burns across his face and the exposed skin of his arms marking him as Jacob Seed. The eldest brother.

The information they have on all four Seeds is so lacking it hurts, but they at least got their hands on a little background once Burke arrived. So he knows that Jacob served as a marksman in Iraq and Afghanistan, that it makes him the biggest threat in here. Physically, anyway.

He’s less armed than you’d expect from the guy in charge of training up formerly harmless civilians, nothing more than a combat knife on him, but Rook doesn’t doubt he can do some damage with the thing. For now it’s strapped to his thigh, and Jacob appears content to observe.

Less of a threat is John Seed, standing to the left behind Joseph. He’s overheard Hudson complaining about him each time she or another deputy get called out to deal with the people claiming he’s made threats against them, usually in the name of buying their property. John gets out of it every time, putting that lawyer background of his to work. He’s got a pistol holstered at his side but he hasn’t made a move towards it, instead watching the show avidly, an amused tilt to his mouth.

“There will be no more suffering!”

“Fuck this,” Burke snarls, warrant held out like a shield (or a red flag). “Joseph Seed! I have a warrant issued for your arrest, on the suspicion of kidnapping with the intent to harm. Now, I want you to step forward, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Joseph lifts his hands obligingly, mockingly, while his followers get to their feet and crowd closer. The yells for them to leave, to go back to where they came from, start up now - and Rook is honestly surprised it took this long.

“There they are. The locusts in our garden.” Joseph lets his hands drop, and he’s just as controlled as he was when they first walked in, but there’s a restless, accusing mania creeping into his words. “See, they’ve come for me. They’ve come to take me away from you. They’ve come to destroy all that we’ve built!”

And there it is. Egging his followers on, fanning their anger and fear into a storm of desperate loyalty and a willingness to do anything for him, for their leader, their Father. More shouts now, the Sheriff futilely trying to get control over the situation when he’d never had even a hint of it in the first place. Burke, hand on his gun but not prepared to take the first shot, bluster up in flames.

And Rook weighs his options. Considers the pistol an inch from his hand, how quick he could draw it, how many he could kill before anyone would react. A heavyset man to his right looks like he’s had some military training, so it’d be him he takes out first. Then Jacob, just in case, even with him standing back against the wall. Shotgun guy next, just behind Rook and a little to the right, and he’d get a few more, injure at least, before getting the fuck out of the church to a position where he’s not crowded in on all sides.

Get off a shot at Joseph too, maybe. Would be a good distraction, followers panicking as he bleeds out on the floor. Same spot Joseph killed that guy in the video, and that’s gotta be some kind of irony, right?

But then Joseph steps forward, off his stage, and abruptly his followers fall silent. The rage disappears under a glance, a touch from him, all their attention riveted to his every action like they’re fucking hypnotised.

“We knew this moment would come.” Soft and calm again, as if he hadn’t just been encouraging them, inciting them to lash out in his defence.

Behind him his brothers move to take his former position, looking down at them under the light streaming through the stained glass window. Faith Seed joins them, the modest lace of her dress a glaring white, and she’s smaller than he imagined. Lacking shoes and any visible weapons, delicate and beautiful and young.

They make quite the picture together.

(He’s always been good at recognising broken people, and boy, are there some cracks in those pretty faces. Makes him want to pry something loose, see what happens.)

“We’ve prepared for it. Go. Go,” Joseph presses, a little firmer, and one by one his followers start to move away. They look back, gazes hard, and Rook restrains the urge to respond with a taunting wave. “God will not let them take me.”

Then it’s just the Seeds left.

Joseph raises his arms, a sermon just for them. He should look ridiculous, with those yellow-tinted sunglasses and lack of shirt, but the guy has- _presence._ “I saw when the Lamb opened the first seal, and I heard, as if it were the noise of thunder one of the four beasts say, come and see!”

More Revelations. Might be sensing a theme here. Does Joseph actually believe the shit he’s selling? Because he really is selling it.

Burke isn’t as impressed, ordering Joseph to step forward. Some of his arrogance made it through all that, then. Maybe he fancies his chances when it’s just them and the Seeds left. Rook wouldn’t exactly count them as safe now, considering Joseph’s people are right outside, ready and willing to burst in at a moment’s notice.

He kind of hopes they do. It’s been a while since he’s last had to fight for his life, and he’s worried he’s out of practice.

“And I saw.” Lowering his arms, Joseph stares unerringly at Burke as he moves toward them. He points at Burke, every inch accusation and steady, unwavering confidence, turning slowly to look at the Sheriff. “And behold. It was a white horse.”

Sheriff Whitehorse shifts back, making a poor effort at hiding his unease. Rook does a better job of restraining the desire to clap. Holy hell, talk about dramatic. Also, love that payoff with the Bible referencing. Making it relevant like that - that’s some real style there.

Then Joseph’s intense gaze turns to him, hands lifting to reach out - to offer themselves out. “And Hell followed with him.”

Rook’s a bit flattered. He’s never been called Hell before. Or an omen of the end of times, if he wants to be more pedantic.

“Rookie,” Burke says, all that smug confidence back, and boy does it make Rook want to punch him just a little. “Cuff this son of a bitch.”

They’re getting the rookie to cuff the dangerous cult leader. Of fucking course. Just call him disposable to his face, why don’t you.

He gets the cuffs out. First time he’s used these as a deputy, kept to the office or routine patrols that deal with speeding and drunk drivers mostly. Might be funny to pretend to fumble and drop them, or act like he’s forgotten how to do it. He’s got quite the audience right now, the Seeds’ gazes heavy and relentless, Burke and the Sheriff expectant. Fucking with them all would be hilarious. But it would also ruin the drama of the whole thing, and Rook is kind of enjoying it. He never got to be in any of those overdone school plays as a kid, and he imagines it’d be a little like this. Just with less guns and more shirts.

“God will not let you take me.”

Shockingly, God doesn’t prevent the cuffs from snapping shut around Joseph’s wrists. No smiting in sight.

“Sometimes the best thing to do, is to walk away,” Joseph says, quiet so only Rook can hear. He almost sounds sympathetic.

And Rook wants to laugh, to smirk and say _clearly, you don’t know the first thing about me._ But Michael Rook wouldn’t do that. Michael swallows, a calm veneer held together with sheer determination and an inborn steadiness. Michael is a good man, and he doesn’t think that this is the most fun he’s had in ages.

He places a hand on Joseph’s shoulder to guide him out, grip careful but firm, able to feel the warmth of Joseph’s skin through the material of his glove. _Gluttony_ is carved between Joseph’s shoulder blades, and he wonders why Joseph marked himself that way. To get scars so deep, it’d be a painful process, the letters neat and clear (like Michael’s handwriting) in raised tissue. There are more nicks and scars, older wounds, and in the centre of it all is the Project’s symbol in bold black.

Rook doesn’t have any tattoos. He’s always kind of liked the idea of them, admiring the sharp lines and sheer extent of expression that can be achieved, turning human skin into a work of art. But tattoos are an easy identifier. He can’t do much about his scarring, past getting surgery for any really distinct ones, but putting something so obvious on himself would be asking to blow every identity he takes up in the future. Dead giveaway, and then he’d be very dead. Or very locked up, which is worse.

They head towards the doors, and he doesn’t like having the Seeds at his back. He listens as best he can, aware of how the floorboards creaked faintly when they came in. Should give him some warning if they make a move. Faith isn’t wearing shoes, and she’s small, so that’d give her an edge on getting close - but last time he looked she didn’t have a weapon, unless big brother lends her that knife of his. Or John takes a shot at him, so he listens for the shift of clothes and the click of a safety being flicked off.

No one shoots him or stabs him in the back. They walk out, Burke and the Sheriff opening the doors wide just in time for a truck to drive up, carrying - surprise! - more armed men. The cultists are properly riled up now, making their earlier behaviour look downright friendly.

There are desperate yells, refusals to let them take their Father, and begging, pleading, which doesn’t take long to shift to anger. But no one gets close, not yet. Joseph kindly increases his pace to match Rook’s when Burke, Hudson and the Sheriff start getting too far ahead in their unease, Burke startling back when a dog barks at him from behind a fence.

Rook sighs faintly.

These guys are just…really incompetent. If he was one of the cultists, he’d have grabbed Joseph a long time ago. All he’d need to do is get behind himself, one shot to the head and suddenly, no one to use Joseph as a potential meat shield. Considering the number of guns around him, it wouldn’t be that hard to sort out the other three. If Jacob really is putting that military training to good use, he’s gotta have some snipers around here, too. Just because Rook hasn’t seen them yet doesn’t mean they’re not here.

It’s real fucking suspicious, actually.

His grip tightens, just a little, as he wonders what Joseph’s game is. He’s letting himself get arrested. It’s clear to anyone with eyes who has the power here, and it’s sure as hell not the Sheriff or Burke. After years of building up his cult, intimidating and kidnapping people, killing at least one person, he’s letting himself be taken away from his people.

So what’s his plan? Does he figure John will get him free by the end of the week, and he’s only putting up with this as a display of control, to show off how far his influence has grown? _Arrest me, but only with my permission. Leave, but only because I allow it._

The cultists get rowdier, for all that they’ve made no move to grab Joseph yet. Yells and threats, more pleading, and then rocks are being thrown. Most of them at the three ahead, but a couple come his way. One is just a little off course - he gets a glimpse of a man’s horrified expression - and Rook raises his free arm to block it before it hits Joseph, unable to resist shooting the thrower an admonishing look.

C’mon, guys. If you’re gonna throw rocks, at least try not to hit your leader with them. Rook has done protection gigs, plus a few rescue ops, so even he knows that harming the target is the opposite of what you’re trying to achieve.

The helicopter comes into sight, and that’s when everything really goes to shit.

One of the rocks gets Burke right in the head - Rook stifles a laugh - and then all three of them have their guns up, frantically waving him closer as Burke fires once, twice into the sky, yelling at the cultists to keep back.

And yeah, okay, Rook gets that things are heating up, that the cultists aren’t going to stay so chill for much longer, even if the ones charging their way aren’t carrying guns like most are. He understands that. He’s just-

It’s all so fucking funny. These guys have lost control so utterly, so completely, and they were so fucking _unprepared_ for this. Did they really think they could charge in, throw up an arrest warrant at a religious megalomaniac, and take him away without any protest? It’s such a shitshow that he almost feels sorry for them.

By some miracle they make it to the helicopter. Joseph goes to his seat without protest, unfailingly calm as his followers throw themselves at the helicopter, fists slamming against the carriage. Burke yells for Pratt to take off as a cultist makes a grab for Rook’s arm, fingers clawing at him and mouth twisted into a snarl.

Rook affects Michael’s fear as he shoves the guy off, hard enough to leave bruises but not enough to break anything. None of the others have shot to kill yet, so he’s waiting on that before making a move himself. It’s not always easy to know when people - normal people - would consider lethal force necessary, so it’s best to check.

Turns out he doesn’t need to wait long before the first death. A man grabs Burke as the helicopter rises fast, the ground falling away, and even under the deafening sound of the rotors spinning the blast of a gunshot comes through loud and clear. Some cultists still cling on - Rook shoves another away, doesn’t bother to watch her go splat against the ground - and he sees one on the front, fist hammering on the glass and blocking Pratt’s view.

Then the cultist is throwing himself upward without an ounce of hesitation. There’s a slash of red, the coppery stink of blood, a metallic grind and Pratt’s swearing, and Rook is glad he’s got his seatbelt on because they’re definitely crashing now.

It’s about then that he picks up on singing, soft and steady under the screaming panic surrounding him. Joseph’s eyes are closed, head tilted back and looking like he could be right back in his church for all he’s affected by what’s going on around him.

Rook watches him as the helicopter shakes and spins. If he listens carefully enough, it makes everything else go quiet.

Then they hit the ground.

* * *

Nausea curls at the back of his throat when he gets his eyes open, vision a slur of colours and shapes. A few blinks and he sees mangled metal, a fire catching already, sees that he’s upside down with his arms hanging limply above him. A voice filters in, familiar through a light distortion.

_“Are you there? Are you there?!”_

_I’m right here,_ he thinks, watching the headset sway back and forth. His head tilts in time with the motion.

_“Are you there, Sheriff?”_

Oh, not for him then. Typical. He’s the only one awake, after all.

He lets out a soft groan, aware now of the sharp pain where he must’ve hit his head. Concussion, explains the nausea and the sluggishness of his thoughts, the disorientation. So, the helicopter crashed. Knocked everyone out, by the looks of it, and if they don’t get out soon they’ll be barbecue. He’s not gonna have to rescue them, is he?

He sighs and reaches for the headset. Better let Nancy know that things went to shit. Maybe they really will send in the National Guard, make a big show of it all. He hopes not, because he’s trying to stick to being anonymous here, but he can always disappear if he needs to. Let them be the big damn heroes who survived crazy Joseph Seed and his army of fanatics.

Speaking of half-naked preachers, where the fuck is he? He didn’t get thrown from the helicopter, did he?

Well. That’s one way of God preventing him from being taken, he supposes. Just snatch him away first, easy as pie.

(He thinks he can still hear Joseph singing, but that’s probably the concussion talking.)

He makes a grab for the headset, fumbles before he manages to get a hold on it. He’s just bringing it towards his face when fingers close tight around his wrist, holding it in place, and he follows the arm down to Joseph Seed staring intently back at him.

Oh. So that’s where he went.

Joseph’s singing, still, so maybe that wasn’t in his head. There are scratches on his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and a fine crack in the left lens of his glasses. But other than that he seems unharmed, for all that he’s got no more protection than a pair of jeans and unshakable confidence.

Huh. What happened to the handcuffs?

“I told you God wouldn’t let you take me.”

Rook looks at him, hears him answer the headset and Nancy’s not so shocking betrayal - anyone could see she held the others at a distance, that she kept her weekend plans vague when she’s so happy to talk about everything else in her life, glaring spots left and right, cut off sentences where she sends darting, questioning looks his way - but he isn’t thinking about all that.

He isn’t thinking about the creeping heat, or the vulnerable position he’s in, wrist still in Joseph’s grasp as he leans closer, close enough to whisper. “No one is coming to save you.”

Rook just looks at him, and thinks, _you’re the most interesting thing to happen to me in ages._

If any of it leaks into his expression, Joseph doesn’t react to it. A cult truck pulls up beside the downed helicopter and he climbs out to greet them, and Rook watches as he takes their hands, as he climbs onto the truck and speaks of seals breaking, the beginning of a collapse.

Hudson starts to move, a cough escaping her - there’s smoke now, and he can feel it catching at his next inhale - as she opens her eyes. Burke, too, and Rook should be reaching for the knife he keeps on him, should be cutting himself free (have a safety harness jam one time, never trust one again), but he can’t make himself look away as Joseph raises his arms and declares the start of the reaping.

It’s about when Hudson is dragged kicking and yelling from the helicopter, and flames flare up around the wreckage, that he shakes himself out of it. Burke has already gotten himself loose - makes a run for it without even a glance back, some marshal - and Rook tears himself out after him, because burning to death? Not in his top ten favourite ways to die.

Gunfire isn’t up there either, and he has plenty to dodge as he books it. They’re in the forest already, and once he’s far enough it gives him plenty of cover to duck behind. He gets some distance first, keeps moving until the cultists’ voices are distant, picked up only on the bulky, scratched-up radio at his hip - Ol’ Reliable, Whitehorse called it with a pat to Rook’s shoulder, leaving Rook smiling to hide the sneer at shitty equipment - that’s managed to survive through the crash. Reliable indeed.

He comes across a cultist. The beige jumper with the red symbol is an obvious giveaway, even if he wasn’t chatting into the radio about sinners. Rook waits until he’s done talking before breaking his neck. Been a while since he’s done that, but the motion is the same. Tight hold as the cultist struggles, abrupt twist to the left, a wet _snap_ and the man goes limp, dropping down into the thick foliage.

He’s got a handgun on him, a 1911 with a full magazine and looking newer than Rook’s service pistol had when he got it. That’s been lost in the crash, so this will make a decent replacement. Always feels better to have a weapon in his hands, though in a pinch he can get by with just his knives - one in each ankle holster, a couple stashed under his shirt and another, larger blade strapped across his lower back - if he has to. He’s managed on less, with worse injuries, and he’s always come out alive.

Goal-wise, he’s just aiming to get as far as possible from the cultists searching for him, when Burke pipes up over the radio.

_“Hello? Anyone hearing me? Hello? It’s Burke…Hello?”_

Rook stares at the radio. Is…Is the man an actual idiot? He gets that there’s murderous cultists looking for him, right? So he should, maybe, be keeping under the radar? Staying quiet, at the very least. Not…using a frequency anyone can patch into.

_“I think I lost them. I see a…a trailer nearby.”_

Oh, _come on_. No. No, he’s not giving away his position. He’s not.

_“It’s next to a long-”_

“Shut _up,”_ Rook hisses into the radio, crouched low as his eyes dart around. The darkness is on his side this time, making him hard to spot if anyone comes by, while the branches and leaves covering the ground will give him advance notice if someone tries sneaking up on him. He knows how to walk right to avoid making noise, and it’s times like this that he’s grateful he gave in to the impulse to amass plenty of survival training under his belt, spending months trekking through terrain similar to this, if a different climate.

_“Rook?”_

“I’ll find you, just- stop talking. Christ.” He clips the radio back on his belt, thumbing the volume down to less than a murmur. A quick flick through finds the frequency the cultists are using, and he listens to them growing increasingly aggravated as they search.

He goes over a ridge and spots the trailer Burke might’ve been talking about. It’s over on the other end of a long rope bridge, one more exposed than he’s comfortable taking, so he climbs down the rocky valley and up the other side. He finds Burke inside the trailer, and he still wants to punch him.

Instead, he takes in Burke’s fear, the abrupt realisation of the sheer volume of shit he’s landed himself in, and when Burke starts ranting about putting the whole Seed family away Rook finally lets himself laugh.

It shakes through him, has him gasping and clutching his ribs, more and more mirth bubbling up through his chest. Because fuck, what does it matter now if he acts like Michael? So he laughs, ignores Burke’s angry words, and picks through the creepy, Seed-obsessed trailer for the guns and ammunition scattered throughout.

Just in time for some cultists to show up, because Burke fucking told them where he is, and Rook’s still grinning as he gets to putting bullets between their eyes. They aren’t that well trained, don’t use the available cover like they should, and each reckless charge gives him more easy targets.

Somehow they end up in a car chase, with trucks and quad bikes and a fucking _plane_ swooping over them, and Rook is buzzing as he gets to killing as many of them as he can. Hey, he’s got permission from a goddamn U.S. Marshal, might as well make use of it.

It’s messy, not so easy to aim when they’re hurtling down hills and over train tracks, but hell if it isn’t satisfying to see their pursuers go up in flames. Oh, and he gets his hands on some dynamite - and doesn’t that make things even more fun.

Then the plane’s dropping bombs right on the bridge they’re crossing, and it collapses beneath them in a screech of tortured metal. The water hits, violently cold, and Rook decides he’s gonna kill that fucking pilot.

But that’s a plan for later. Right now, what matters is shoving himself out the open window, kicking off the side of the truck and avoiding falling debris. The pressure in his chest builds, lungs straining, and he doesn’t let himself panic, squashes the urge to breathe with an unerring focus on getting himself above water, relying more on his instincts than his sight that’s distorted by the murky river.

He makes it to the shore. Heaves one gasping breath after another, wet hair falling in his eyes as his fingers curl into the dirt. There’s shouting and lights flashing up on the bridge - only a section got destroyed, then, their section - and across the river he hears Burke yelling, throwing his status as a marshal out like it’ll keep him safe. Doesn’t sound like they care much.

His vision is going black around the edges, and boy, that isn’t a good sign. Can’t tell if it’s the concussion from the helicopter crash, or maybe he got another when he slammed his head against the dashboard when the truck hit the water. Then he feels the dull, bone-deep sting in his side. Oh. Must’ve got shot.

He hasn’t had great luck with bullets lately, huh?

It’s his last (semi)coherent thought before he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, this was born from binging nearly every fic on AO3 and craving a Deputy who's just as much of a bastard as the Seeds and can hold his own against them. So, here's Deputy Rook - a smiley, amoral, borderline psychopath with poor impulse control. And I'm not kidding when I say this is a slow burn, though at least the mutual obsession gets started early on (except Jacob, he doesn't show up until like, chapter 13 and has the least screentime until the later chapters, sorry Jacob). 
> 
> And I'm gonna say this now - this fic is very self-indulgent, near crack-ish at times, and is about messy, fucked up people being messy and fucked up. I've also written way more than I ever thought I would. In terms of chapter length, this one is the longest - most will be around the 5k mark, just for anyone who wants to know what they're in for. 
> 
> Couple other general warnings - don't expect too much realism when it comes to fighting/survival etc., especially since combat is something Rook is hyper-competent in. And enjoys a lot. Though this is a Far Cry fic so...pretty realistic if you take that into account. Honestly, the most unrealistic thing is gonna be the radios and cell phones because they are absolutely used for the convenience of the plot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief mention of past child abuse, does come up now and again throughout fic

Rook wakes up zip-tied to the metal frame of a bed, and all he can think is _this again?_

He winces, pain flashing through his head when he lifts it too fast. Right, concussion. There’s a light pressure at the back of his skull, another on his temple where there's a dull ache. Same for his side. Bandages, maybe? He looks down, sees the dried blood that’s soaked through his uniform. Explains the passing out. There’s a slight numbness to his fingers that tends to go with mild blood loss, a familiar dizziness, and his vision takes longer than he’d like to settle.

That’s when he meets Dutch.

Full-on survivalist type, hiding out in his bunker when the end of the world - or Hope County, at least - comes knocking. On his own hecking island, even. He’s one of the people Nancy mentioned - “always causing trouble, that man” - with exasperated disapproval in her voice.

Dutch is a veritable fountain of information. Roads closed, phone lines cut - signal was already gone, so he isn’t surprised about that part - and it looks like the cultists have ramped things up to eleven. First seal broken, isn’t that what Joseph said? Must’ve been all the permission they needed to start their takeover.

Rook lets Dutch rant at him, lets him talk about cultists preparing for years for the world ending without even a hint of self-awareness. He doesn’t even object to being blamed for kicking off this ‘holy war’ (one more thing checked off the bucket list, right?).

“The smartest thing for me to do would just be to hand you over.”

“But you’re not going to,” Rook says. It reads plain as day in Dutch’s face, in the fact that he took him here, bandaged him up, rather than leaving him on the shoreline to get grabbed by a cultist. The anger, the carefully tucked away fear when he described how the cult has taken over - he isn’t going to hand Rook over, not even for a chance of some level of protection.

(And it’s interesting, isn’t it, to even be considered a bargaining chip like this. There’s always a certain thrill that comes with being hunted, and now he’s got a whole cult after him.

It’s a real shame he’ll be leaving the county as soon as possible.)

Dutch’s lips press together in a harsh line, and he looks away. “Fuck.”

Then he’s cutting Rook loose, and Rook is glad he held off on acting hostile. Didn’t even have to free himself, all because he sat and listened. Take that, Denise. He can totally choose the reasonable, non-confrontational option without needing to be forced into it.

Dutch even offers him some fresh clothes to change into, and Rook thanks him - both for the clothes and the bandages - before picking through them. His jeans survived the ordeal decently enough, even if they’re still a bit damp and could do with a wash. It’s a good thing because the clothes are all on the small side for a guy like Rook, the shirt he grabs only just about stretchy enough to pull on. He commits to raiding a store or house to get something that fits better.

When he checks, his phone is fucked from the dip in the lake. Shame, since it survived through the crash and being shot at, but with the signal lost there wasn’t much use for it anyway. Might be worth seeing if he can fix it. He’d taken his own phone with him today (yesterday? How long was he unconscious?) rather than Michael’s, which is probably why it didn’t get utterly smashed, and he’d rather not throw it away.

The wound on his side doesn’t look too bad when he peels away the bandage. Didn’t hit anything major, more a deep gash than anything else, a wound that bled a lot but didn’t nick any organs or major arteries. He tries to remember when it happened but he’d been a _bit_ distracted at the time. Probably during the car chase whilst being hunted down by a never-ending stream of cultists.

And _boy,_ are there a lot more cultists than Rook had been given the impression of. Dutch has a full-on crazy board, red string and all, detailing how each region’s been taken over by one of the Seed siblings. Kidnapping and torture, a drug called Bliss, fucking wolves. Dutch’s notes give it the bizarre edge that makes him wonder, just briefly, if maybe Dutch isn’t the best source of information. He’s got a lot of it, sure, but the reliability is dubious at best.

(If it is all true, then - fuck, if it isn’t hilarious that some guy down in a bunker knows more about what’s been happening in Hope County than a U.S. Marshall and the Sheriff's Department.)

He does tell him that his fellow officers have been handed off to each of the Seeds. Seems to think Rook considers them friends, that he gives a shit about people he’s known for the grand total of about a month. That he’s up for joining this _Resistance_ (capital R, sounds more snazzy that way) Dutch has dreamt up.

Rook nods in all the right places, falls back into the role of Michael, dutiful deputy. Even agrees to do the little errands Dutch sets out in front of him, as thanks for patching him up.

It isn’t too much trouble to ‘liberate’ this island of his. Few cultists to kill - and a good opportunity to load himself up on a rifle and ammunition - and a couple of guys to save from whatever the cultists had planned for them. He even gets to destroy an actual goddamn cultist shrine, staying well back when the canister within explodes. No way is he getting close to some unknown drug cooked up by religious fanatics, thank you very much.

Then he’s off climbing a radio tower, and Rook vows to haunt the shit out of Dutch if he falls off this thing. Or maybe the Seeds, since this is all technically their fault. He’d be the most annoying ghost to ever exist, he guarantees it. The attention-seeking cat of ghosts.

He doesn’t fall, even as the tower sways and creaks under him. His hard work is rewarded with being told how fucked the situation is, and leaves him wondering how the Seeds managed to gain such a foothold in just a few days.

But from what he’s seen, they’ve been getting away with shit for years, building huge bunkers and buying up land, putting up that statue of theirs. Is it all that surprising that now they have free reign to act as they like, the county’s crumbled to just a few pockets of civilian resistance?

And he’s- shit, he really is curious how it'll all turn out. His money is on the Seeds. They’re better armed, have a shit tonne of people willing to die at Joseph’s command, and they’re already close to fully controlling the county. It won’t take more than a couple months for them to finish things up, not without outside opposition, and they’ve done a neat job of delaying that for as long as they can.

It’ll fall apart in the end, though. People will get curious when no one hears from Burke, at the very least, and while the Seeds have plenty of money to throw around, there’s no getting out of blatantly killing and kidnapping people.

And when that time comes, it’s best that Rook isn’t around to get questioned about his own actions - or have his identity picked apart.

* * *

He ends up choosing Holland Valley as his way out.

It seems the safest option out of them. Jacob’s got control up north, so Rook’s making the assumption that the military presence will be denser, better trained. Oh, and there’s the fact he’s apparently trained up wolves, too. Another good reason to avoid the place.

The Henbane is out as an option. He isn’t going near an area filled with this Bliss shit, and Dutch tells him there are entire fields spanning across the region, the river polluted with it.

So Holland Valley it is. Roadblocks and collapsed tunnels or not, there’s nothing stopping him from keeping to the woods and getting out of the county that way. It’ll be a long, hard trip back to civilisation though, so on the way he checks out every abandoned building he sees.

Finding a sturdy backpack in one, he loads up on supplies. Gets himself a shirt that actually fits, picks up a dark jacket and some cargo pants to make himself look a little less like Deputy Rook. Has a damn shower too, because even if the water’s cold he fucking needs it, sweat and blood and muck sticking to his skin.

When he looks in the mirror he can see the brown dye is starting to fade from his hair. Soon it’ll darken to black, matching the roots that have grown through. He runs a hand through it, debates cutting it shorter or shaving it off to make it harder for people to identify him.

But really, if someone gets close enough to see his face they’re gonna know who he is, under the scratches and bruises from two crashes. He didn’t even wear coloured contacts on this one, not for keeping up an identity for so long, and everyone in the church got a good look at him, dim lighting or not. The extra effort of hiding his identity isn’t really worth it.

He does put on a grey baseball cap (go Cougars!), leaves off shaving so there’s some stubble on his jaw. Little things that’ll make it harder to pick him out from a distance. Most of the cultists he comes across have never seen him before, anyway. Lot of them are from out of town, unfamiliar even to a guy who’s only been here a month. Civilians, for the most part, and that makes it pathetically easy to cut them down when they come after him.

He doesn’t run into too many, sticking to travelling on foot. It’s slower, but the cultists have a heavy presence on the roads. He’s trying not to be too obvious here, and leaving a trail of bodies wouldn’t be super subtle.

He _does_ give in to the urge to blow up those red silos packed with Bliss fertiliser - according to a note he finds in a shed - because they’re a big damn target and Rook is a petty jackass who likes watching the explosions.

Not enough of a jackass to ignore some cultists taunting a dog in a cage. Because the thing is, Rook doesn’t have soft spots. He doesn’t let himself. Sure, he keeps to something of a code in that he won’t take hits on kids, but it’s a code he can break if he needs to and he knows it.

But- he likes animals. He always wanted a pet as a kid, wanted something just for him, that he could look after and keep safe. The Walkers let their kid have as many as he liked, a new one for each birthday and Christmas and weekday whim, so Rook got to interact with the cast-offs as long as he didn’t let anyone else realise he was doing it, at least until the Walkers got rid of it.

The one that lasted the longest was a German Shepherd puppy, all big paws and eyes and clumsiness, and Rook got to play at training it up once the shine wore off for Daniel, his half-brother losing interest quickly. Rook even managed to get it to obey a few simple commands, and he’d been so proud he made the dumb mistake of asking indifferent, distant Evan Walker if he could keep the puppy - he didn’t name it, not yet, he wasn’t that dumb - after showing his father what he'd taught it.

Daniel threw a tantrum and, well, that was that.

So yeah. Rook’s wandering towards a pumpkin farm, mostly just heading over because he’s never been on one before and he’s curious about how big these pumpkins get compared to Halloween ones in stores, when he hears yelps and barking and metal rattling.

He realises this is the place Dutch mentioned earlier, trying to get him to check it out - so sure he’d do it, that he’d follow orders like a good soldier. He creeps closer, ducking down, and there are four cultists gathered around the farmhouse. Corpses on the ground, too, so he’s betting the owners are either dead or long gone.

A minute later there are four more corpses added to the pile.

When he gets the cage open the dog runs out, right for a couple of bodies near the house. Keening whimpers reach his ears as he moves closer. That’s a point in the 'probably murdered' column when it comes to the owners, then.

His finger taps against the radio, and after a moment’s pause, he flicks it back on.

“Dutch, I’m at the pumpkin farm.” Giving his location out like this needles him, especially when he’s using an open frequency used by seemingly everyone around here, going by the couple distress calls he’s heard. But he’ll be gone in just a few minutes, too fast for the cultists to send much of a force after him. “Everyone’s dead, apart from the dog.”

There’s a long silence. He remembers the voicemail from the farm owner on the answering machine in Dutch’s bunker, and wonders if the two of them were friends.

_“You’ll take Boomer with you?”_

The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of his name. Take a dog with him? Right, Dutch doesn’t know that Rook is high-tailing it out of this shitshow.

Rook frowns, watching as Boomer gives a soft whine and settles down beside the corpses. The sound tugs at him, just a little.

Shit.

“Sure,” he hears himself say, shifting to crouch down beside Boomer and reaching out to pat his head. He’s slow, just in case he needs to yank his hand back, but Boomer takes all of one sniff to go from sitting still to licking at Rook’s face, pushing into his hands when a surprised huff of laughter escapes Rook.

He can’t just- leave him here, not like that. He’ll probably end up shot by some cultist, or caged up by them again since seemed like they came to the farm for him.

But Rook can’t look after a dog. He hasn’t got a responsible bone in his body, and it isn’t like his job is very conducive to keeping pets, and that’s if he can get Boomer out of the county with him.

He’ll just…he’ll find a new owner for him, one who isn’t a crazy cultist. There’s that place close by which Dutch wanted him to kick the cultists out of, right? Fall’s End, the one at the centre of all this kidnapping fuckery that’s been going on. So, if he clears that place of any cultists, gets the locals back in, at least one of them has gotta be willing to look after a dog. Simple.

“Let’s go find you a new owner.” He gives Boomer one last pat and straightens up, finding that Boomer follows along as he heads into the house.

He strips it of anything useful, food and bottled water and binoculars that are nicer than the pair he grabbed at the ranger’s station on Dutch’s island, and packs up some dog food and a couple of treats. Just enough to last a few days, though with the way things are going he’ll get to Fall’s End quicker than that.

He switches the radio back off again once he leaves the farm, cutting off what sounds like some cultist’s rant before it’s able to pick up steam.

* * *

The journey to Fall’s End is pretty uneventful. He sticks to the trees, Boomer well-trained enough to stay close and quiet. Most of the cultists he avoids, seeing no point in killing them when it wouldn’t benefit him. He spends a couple hours sleeping inside a metal crate by the railway with Boomer curled up beside him, a warm, furry weight against his side. Then he’s moving, checking his map and compass to make sure he’s going in the right direction.

The county looks more and more fucked the longer he spends here. Trucks go by with the cult’s cross painted on the sides, tankers too, ferrying supplies and people across the county. There’s gotta be hundreds of cultists if there’s this many showing up in just this part of Holland Valley, and his estimate of the Resistance’s chances shrinks by the minute. There’s even heavily guarded outposts set up, and he catches sight of one firing on a group of civilians - or Resistance, maybe, considering the guns? - who get too close.

He can’t avoid every patrol however, not when he has to move across open country without any cover. There’s a yell, and three cultists are running his way with rifles in their hands, raising them when he gets his own gun up. Still just the pistol, with a suppressor he nicked from some survivalist's cache, and he’s got two of them down with neat bullet holes between their eyebrows when Boomer takes down the third.

He watches, impressed, as Boomer efficiently rips through the man’s throat. The dog then runs back over to him, tail wagging as he licks his chops.

Before looting the corpses, he throws Boomer a dog treat. “Good boy.”

Boomer gets a few more chances to shine by the time they make it to Fall’s End. By then they’ve got a system of whistles worked out, little warning barks to let Rook know if someone - or something, lot of wildlife out here - is getting close.

It’s crazy how fast Boomer picks up on his directions. Smart dog. He’ll be sad to see him go; it isn’t often that he enjoys having company in a fight, and Boomer does a better job of backing him up than most people he’s known.

He still has Boomer wait at the outskirts once they reach the town. A quick scout around reveals the place is completely overrun, windows smashed, bullet holes in doors, couple buildings nothing more than smoking remains, and the remaining locals tied up and kneeling. It makes the town unfamiliar, and he’s only driven through a few times at most anyway. Not nearly enough to feel anything for the destruction.

There’s a whole lot of snapping necks and dumping bodies in bushes or behind crates. And yeah, he’d love to go in guns blazing and have a proper shootout, make a game of it and time how long it takes to whittle them down to nothing. But if the cultists get the bright idea to kill off their hostages, that’s fewer potential owners for Boomer. So going quiet it is.

It’s kind of meditative, actually. Relaxing. Sure, he’s alert for anyone spotting him - he takes the sniper out first with that in mind, then everyone else on the rooftops, before starting on the buildings and ground - and he’s careful, every movement quiet and measured.

But this is what he’s good at. Playing at deputy was something different, something to pass the time and satisfy a little nostalgia, but at the heart of things Rook is a killer. On a good day, he’s restrained violence and the ever-present knowledge of just how easy it is to end a life, and he’s been that way so long he can’t remember what it was like to exist any other way. Not enough to ever go back.

It’s why he can’t play at being normal for too long, always finds the edges of himself cracking under the facade, and he never wants to be the kind of guy who lashes out indiscriminately.

Cultists, though? He figures they count as decent targets.

Then they send a fucking _plane_ after him (another plane, Christ, how many of these things do they have?) and he spends the next adrenaline-fuelled seconds - minutes? - charging towards a machine gun on one of the roofs, firing up at the plane each time it swoops by, bullets missing him by a hair when he’s forced into ducking down behind cover that barely keeps him from being riddled with holes.

Finally, finally it’s enough, engines catching fire and plummeting towards the ground, towards Rook, but it goes over his head and crashes into the road in an explosion of tearing metal.

He wipes sweat off his forehead and just breathes for a second.

It doesn’t take long for the locals to come pouring back in once the call goes out that Fall’s End is back under Resistance control. He goes to the bar, because there’s always going to be someone there no matter what time of day it is or if there’s a miniature civil war going on in their backyard, and finds the pastor he freed earlier along with the owner of the bar. Gets some gratitude, which is nice, he doesn’t see that a lot in his line of work.

He’s just about to start asking about someone who could take Boomer, when Fairgrave mentions the broadcast.

“You’ve seen it, right?” She scowls in disgust and pours herself a whiskey, passing him over a can of soda when he passes on her initial offer. “Parading her out like some trophy he won.”

He nods even though he’s got no idea what she’s talking about.

Wait, didn’t he hear something about a broadcast from Dutch before he stopped paying much attention? (Look, he’d been on a zipline having the time of his life, who could blame him for not listening?)

It’s easy enough to find out what she means. There’s a TV set on the corner of the bar, and with the electricity back up it’s been switched on. The only thing it shows is what Eden’s Gate wants on there, like most TVs he’s seen in the valley. He hasn’t paid it much mind past catching sight of a smug John Seed in that plane-patterned coat of his, but now he does look, moving closer until he can hear what’s being said while keeping the screen just in the corner of his eye so he isn’t too obvious.

And it’s talk of sinners, of cleansing and freedom and Yes. It’s Hudson, desperation in her eyes and mascara streaks down her cheeks, bound and gagged.

It’s a promise, a taunt, a threat-

A challenge.

And Rook-

He’s never been able to just walk away from a challenge.

* * *

Maybe he can stay, at least a little longer.

* * *

Jeffries and Fairgrave have plenty of work for him, and they aren’t shy about sending him off on their errands. He agrees, plays at being Michael Rook who just wants to help, wants to get his people back from the big bad cultists. Doesn’t let on that the focus which drives him to tear through outposts and pick off armed convoys has nothing to do with good intentions, and everything to do with his inability to let a challenge go unanswered.

He keeps Boomer because every time he tries approaching someone with the thought of finding a new owner, he gets an overly affectionate dog demanding his attention and giving him big, sad eyes as if he can sense Rook’s intentions.

It’s unfair, and he’s so fucking weak, but he gives in every time.

He also gets used to agreeing to every little errand that gets thrown his way. Gets used to random strangers dropping their problems at his feet and expecting him to do something about it. For all that he’s been an outsider ever since he got here, more than one suspicious look thrown his way on trips to the store or exploratory strolls through town, they’re quite happy to use him as they like now that everything’s gone to shit. Can’t fault them for adaptability.

It would probably piss him off if this wasn’t what he wanted. It’s all in the narrative. The Deputy going after the evil cultists, helping the Resistance and the innocent, hard-working locals whenever he can, bolstering their members at a rate that has (empty) praise greeting him wherever he goes.

And he’s answering a challenge, one that doesn’t even have to be directed at him, not when it’s so very tempting to be the one who answers anyway. Except he’s self-aware enough to know that he wants it to be directed at him. It’s the kid in him, the one who laughed and yelled and fought the loudest, just for those few seconds of eyes on him, only him, and it didn’t matter why they were looking except that they were.

(Apart from the times when he flinched from every glance, curling in on himself - harder, now, that he was so much taller than everyone else in his class, no longer the small, skinny kid he used to be. Those days- he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be that person anymore.

It’s better now. He knows how to box away that part of him, leave it locked and screaming in a distant corner of his mind.)

So when John Seed - he recognises him now, that challenge of his all but imprinting his voice in Rook’s head, and this isn’t the first broadcast aimed at him since then - starts threatening him over the radio when he destroys one too many silos, he gives in to the temptation to pick up (sheds just a little more of Michael).

“But they’re such blatant targets, John,” he drawls, warm and overly familiar. Like they’re old buddies instead of antagonistic strangers. “How could I resist?”

He brings the stock of his rifle up to his shoulder, preparing to pick off the three cultists who weren’t killed in the explosion of the silo. The first bullet clips a man’s shoulder, jerking him back. The next is a straight shot through his neck that has him dropping like a stone.

He’s making an effort to be a bit sloppier now. Michael Rook isn’t a trained soldier, a man who’s been killing people for years. He’s just a newbie cop who spent the years before a late admission to college in an assortment of random, by the hour jobs.

He wouldn’t be able to drop into a situation like this without a few stumbles here and there, some time to warm up to killing people without hesitation. He’d make mistakes, miss more often than he gets a hit in, and since Rook isn’t burning the bodies past recognition or dumping them somewhere, he doesn’t want someone to come across them and start thinking _"_ that’s a lot of headshots for a junior deputy still on probation".

Might be a bit on the paranoid side - none of the cultists he’s seen so far strike him as the type to think too deeply about the sinner hunting them down - but it doesn’t hurt. Bit of an extra handicap, too. Give the Project more of a fair shot at winning this.

Because the thing is, Rook knows he’s picked the losing side here. For every outpost he gets back, there are dozens more. Kill a cultist, ten replace them like these assholes have access to cloning machines.

But that’s part of the appeal. It’s been ages since he’s been- the underdog, he supposes? Or at least have such a massive disadvantage, because they can call themselves the Resistance all they like, but it’s obvious that things only start to shift in their favour when Rook gets involved. Talk about an ego boost.

Speaking of.

_“Deputy.”_ The title is just as sharp as when John first spoke it moments ago, all harsh consonants and heavy emphasis, dragged out like John wants to tease out each syllable.

But there’s more to it now; the faint smoothness of pleasant surprise. _“The trail of destruction and pain you leave in your wake has not gone unnoticed. My men are coming for you. You will be found, and you will be punished.”_ His tone shifts, falsely sympathetic and wearing it well - someone's had practice. _“I understand that you are driven to such vile acts by the false beliefs planted by those around you. Once your sins are revealed to you, you will see just how far you have strayed from your true purpose.”_

There's a yell as the cultists see the dead body of their comrade, one looking torn between running away and going to the corpse, the other charging in the direction he thinks the bullet came from. He’s off by a good dozen metres, and he pays for the mistake.

Boomer takes care of the last, and then it’s just the two of them along with the smouldering remains of the silo. He grabs some ammunition from the dead cultists and heads on his way. Mary May wants him to get her dad’s truck back, and he figures it’ll be something different to do from the murder and mayhem that’s become his recent routine.

“Hope you aren’t too attached to any of your men.” His fingers tap idly against the radio, switching it off when he starts getting close to the warehouse the truck is stored in. A shame - he wouldn’t have minded chatting with John for a bit.

So. The Seeds don’t want to straight-up kill him. That’s surprising - he’d thought they’d want to get rid of him. He’s only been in John’s region for a couple weeks and he’s already fucked up several of his operations, stealing (taking back?) resources and destroying anything that’s of value to the Project.

Oh, and he’s killed a lot of their people, too. They make it too easy, obviously new to firearms in a lot of cases and with only a basic concept of how to react in a gunfight. It’s like they want him to kill them.

(Later, he’ll look back, think _cull the herd_ and laugh.)

He’s had time to figure the Project out a bit. What they want is pretty straight forward as far as he can tell. They’ve built themselves bunkers to survive the upcoming apocalypse - this Collapse of theirs - and they’re stocking up on all the resources they can get their hands on. Including people. Hence the kidnapping and forceful conversion, using Bliss to smooth the way (though the mutilation and posing corpses with antlers in them has gotta just be for fun and The Aesthetic).

Rook can’t help but think that isn’t a great long-term plan - once the drugs run out, not many are going to be willing to forgive and forget - and Joseph Seed really did go about this in the worst way possible, huh?

Joseph does seem to genuinely believe in all these grand proclamations of his, at least. He won’t be the first to think there’s an apocalypse coming, a breakdown in society that’ll leave only rubble and bones behind. But you’ve gotta give him points for the lengths he’s going to. No half-assing it from him.

Firing up Widowmaker, Rook kind of wants to pick up the radio and ask why they took it in the first place. Isn’t like they can fit it into one of those bunkers of theirs, right? And something like this beast of a vehicle doesn’t really mesh with the idea of a perfect, sin-free Eden, all peace and flower crowns and unicorns dancing through fields of cotton candy.

He blares the horn and fucking _crumples_ a cultist’s truck, barely feels the resistance as he breaks through the blockade. Okay, the Widowmaker is definitely worth the diversion. Watching the cultists panic when they realise he’s coming at them and he sure as shit isn’t gonna stop - it’s the highlight of his day.

He’d say week, but it’s outclassed by seeing a bear charge into an outpost he was scouting, taking out nearly all of the people there before they finally put it down. He’d almost felt bad about cutting the lone survivor’s throat.

So he’s grinning pretty hard when he rolls up next to the bar, Mary May waiting for him outside.

“Your old man must’ve been quite the character.” Rook pats the hood fondly, avoiding a smear of blood. There’s a lot of it, and Rook may have made a game of seeing how many cultists he could swerve into on his way back. Twenty-six is the final count.

Boomer hops out the open door and heads over to the church; he’s a real hit around there according to the pastor, and they feed him so Rook doesn’t see any need to object. Means he doesn’t have to lug around so much dog food, and his hunting skills are still rusty enough that he’s fine with scavenging for now.

“He really was,” Mary May agrees. “He’d be glad to see you puttin’ it to good use.”

“Wasn’t a fan of the peggies, I take it?”

Still feels weird to call them ‘peggies’. He understands the reason people here do it. It dehumanises them, makes hundreds - thousands if their presence is as strong in the other regions as it is here, gotta be - of people into one big, insane horde, interchangeable apart from the Seeds and a few scary characters. Makes them the other, no longer actual people but a faceless, monstrous enemy, and it’s suddenly a lot easier to send teams out (or Rook, just Rook, that seems to be a favoured option) to hunt them down and put a bullet in their heads.

Rook doesn’t need that whole part of it, so he mostly sticks to calling them ‘cultists’ in his head. If he starts spouting off about _"those dang peggies and their overabundance of flamethrowers"_ he’ll have to punch himself. No going native for him, thanks.

“You could say that,” Mary May says bitterly as she leads him inside the bar. “He knew what they were right from the start, even before things went to shit. Takin’ people, stealin’ their property, doin’ whatever the hell they wanted…And the Sheriff sure wasn’t gonna stop them.”

She gives him a pointed look, light enough for him to grin back despite the dark tone of her voice.

“Hey, don’t blame me. I only rocked into town about a month before this all went down.”

Jeez, it really hasn’t been all that long since he first decided to come here. The best markers of time passing are how his wounds have healed up, just scars left now, limp gone completely. The scars will be joined by new ones if this keeps going the way it has been, even if no one’s managed to get much of a shot at him since the car chase. Too outclassed.

Here’s to hoping John sends something special his way. So far he’s just been griping at Rook over the radio, along with a few pointed sermons Rook listens in on for the fun of it. Got a real nice voice, just like his brother, and he gets so damn _heated_ when Rook takes back another outpost or fucks up a supply run, all tightly wound rage and vicious threats. Too easy, maybe, but the near-instantaneous response is one hell of a reward.

“Suppose that’s true.” Mary May eyes him. “How’re you likin’ it here?”

“Having the time of my life.” His smile is the most honest it’s been all conversation. Hope County’s turned out to be way more interesting than he ever thought it’d be. Can’t say he’s ever dealt with this kind of scenario before.

“Got family on the outside?”

Funny, how it’s already become ‘the outside’. Like they’re in their own bubble here, cut off from everything else. Radio is up still, one on the counter set to some 80s station, though the cult is doing a good job at jamming any signals going out from what Dutch has told him.

The Resistance is working on getting phones up and running at least within the county, since that’ll be a more secure line than anything radio frequencies can offer. Rook’s betting on the major players in the Project having their hands on cell phones, maybe rigging things up to get a working signal only they can use, so maybe he’ll see about stealing one for himself.

Rook shakes his head and leans on the edge of the bar. “No family, not for a while now.”

He could lie all he likes, make up some pretend-perfect family with egg and bacon breakfasts in the mornings before school, vacations down to a little log cabin with fishing by the lake and hilarious stories about older brothers shoving him in until he almost drowned. Could make up names and faces, put in all the emotion needed to sell it, make it real as anything. So real there’s no way of telling where the lie ends and Rook begins, until he can feel the warm pressure of a proud hand on his shoulder, the flash of a grin and impact of a playful hit to the shoulder.

He’s done it before.

But he likes Mary May. She’s no-nonsense in a fun sort of way, blunt with a steady resoluteness to her. She’s the kind of person to make it through all this and still be around to kick some drunks out of her bar afterwards. So yeah, he’ll hold off on the lies when it isn’t necessary. Find some middle ground between Michael and Rook.

“Sorry to hear it.” She pauses. “The deputies and the marshal…You know ‘em well?”

Then there’s that. Michael’s motivation for sticking around, along with serving justice and all that. People Rook couldn’t care less about.

But he can play it up. Needs to, because people like the human part in things, the messy, needy bits where emotion takes the lead and everyone nods along, says they’d do the same thing, and never have to think about actually doing it.

“Joey showed me the ropes. I know she didn’t want to, but she wasn’t gonna let Staci do it - the guy would’ve messed with me even more than he already did.”

He chuckles, makes it sound natural, just a little low and with a warmth that makes it seem like they’re best buds. “I was real fucking nervous that first week, let me tell you. Was terrified I’d do something wrong, drop my gun or lock myself up with my own handcuffs, dumb stuff like that. She knocked some sense into me, kept reminding me I knew the basics and they’d be there if I needed the help.”

“That why you came here first? To get her back from John Seed?”

He drops his gaze, lets the laughter fade out of his face into something suitably solemn. “Yeah. Saw that broadcast, and- shit, I can’t leave her there with that maniac. Who knows what the fuck he’s doing to her.” Anger, now, just a slight downturn to his mouth and the clench of his fist. Not enough to look out of control, like a threat.

Must succeed, because instead of backing off Mary May puts her hand on his arm. “Don’t go playin’ the hero and running in there without a plan. You’ve gotta run down his forces first, get our people ready for the fight.” She leans forward, her smile grim yet sympathetic as she squeezes his forearm. “We won’t forget what you’ve done for us. We’ll help you, just like you’ve helped all of us. ”

Drop his shoulders just a bit, like there’s tension draining from them. “Thanks, Mary May.”

Doesn’t say he could find Hudson if he really wanted to. That if he cared, if he considered her one of his, nothing could keep him from getting her back.

As it is, she’s just another piece in the game he’s jumped into headfirst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the awesome response to this fic! The comments and kudos are really motivating, and I'm glad people are liking this weirdo of a Deputy Rook! 
> 
> This chapter was one of the toughest to write just because it's on the slower side, more focused on establishing things and general set up. During this fic I do use a lot of the game's plotline up until a certain point where it diverges completely, and other plot elements will have my own spin to it rather than being a straight write-up of the game (especially later). 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: The Bliss and all it entails, brief and vague references to past child abuse/sexual assault, mentions of past drug use, panic attack.
> 
> These will all apply throughout the fic as well.

Having people hunt him down should be more exciting than it turns out to be.

Bless their hearts, they do try. Proper little squads with differing skills, even throwing some snipers in there to try tagging him from a distance. Doesn’t mean they can aim for shit, of course, but at least they’re doing their best. He’s still just a bit offended that they don’t at least manage to clip him when he’s moving at barely more than a crawl. No wonder he hasn’t been shot yet if this is what their best looks like.

He tears the gun straight from a man’s hands and, to his credit, the guy does react quickly enough to grab a knife, all shiny and clean like he polishes the thing every night. Unfortunately, knives don’t have much in the way of loyalty, and it cuts through the cultist’s throat like it would anyone else’s. Rook dodges the arterial spray with the ease of practice and one too many face-fulls of blood.

When he’s finished up he drags the bodies out onto the road - they even chased him into the woods, didn’t lose him within seconds, he’s so proud - and makes them nice and visible in neat rows next to one of those dirty white trucks the cultists drive.

He roots through their pockets and the truck’s glove box to scrounge up a pen and paper, Boomer running circuits around the area. It’s Rook’s attempt at training him to be a decent guard dog, get him used to warning him if anyone approaches without being super obvious about it, but mostly ends in Boomer barking after squirrels.

_Good effort!_ He scrawls on the wrinkled paper, opposite side to a shopping list - _water bottles, cans, toilet paper, shampoo_ \- and a wonky doodle of the Project’s cross. _Keep trying your best, and one day you’ll reach the stars!_ He adds a smiley face for good measure, wishes he had some gold stickers, and tucks the note behind the windscreen wipers like the world’s laziest parking ticket.

He’s treated to one of John’s more manic rants later that day, providing a beautiful backdrop to Rook stealing a supply van. Probably food this time, no wire mesh over the windows to indicate they’re ferrying people around in the thing. This time they’re smart enough to have two trucks guarding it rather than just a couple men, which means he can’t simply shoot the driver from a distance, then take care of anyone else as he strolls up whilst the van is still slowing to a halt.

No, instead he gets to test out some explosives he picked up at a garage the cult had turned into one of their outposts. They have a bad habit of stockpiling their weapons in these places, so every time he’s done clearing one he gets to load up again, maybe bag some new goodies if he’s lucky. This time, it’s a pair of remote explosives he’s laid out on the road.

First one flings the lead truck onto its side in an explosion that tears through the cab. Screams reach him from up on his ledge, one man managing to scramble out despite being on fire - doesn’t get very far, not with those injuries - and the other vehicles screech to a halt.

Three men get out cautiously, scanning the area and missing Rook entirely, too far away to see his crouched form. Beside him Boomer squirms, ears flicked forward as he gives a low growl, but stays where he is. Good boy.

Eventually, the men get back into their vehicles and start driving. Rook waits for the other guard truck trailing along behind the supply van to roll over the right spot a little further up the road. The explosives are hidden under a shallow layer of dirt, not enough to reduce the impact any, just makes them less obvious unless you’re real paranoid or observant. Takes the second truck out just as easy as the first.

That gets the supply van’s driver panicking, all alone and vulnerable now, and she accelerates rapidly in a messy attempt to get away.

Rook brings up his rifle, peers down the scope and takes a breath. One slight squeeze of the trigger - _three pounds of pressure, careful and slow, don’t yank the damn thing_ \- and Rook gains some more supplies for the good people of Fall’s End.

_“-and you will see that there’s no other way this can end, no future where these senseless acts of violence actually_ matter,” John is snarling as Rook slides down the slope. Boomer makes a decent attempt at tripping him every time he knocks against Rook’s ankles in his eager scramble down after him.

_“You’re fighting against the inevitable. It’s pointless, a childish tantrum without direction, and you’re so blind in your ignorance that you think it righteous! You will see, I’ll_ make _you see, I’ll break you open until you have no other choice and you’re_ begging _for the chance to repair all that you have ruined.”_

There’s a long silence - maybe he’s catching his breath after that heated outburst - and Rook grabs his radio as he jogs up to the van. “At least buy me dinner first. I don’t want people thinking I’m easy, you know?”

Another pause. Rook opens the van’s door and drags the corpse out, leaving it to flop onto the dirt road. A brief look at the bloody chair and he tears off a bit of the corpse’s sweater to wipe the seat down. He likes this jacket, it actually fits him, and blood always ruins the material. Makes the leather crack and smell gross, and Rook doesn’t exactly have access to dry cleaning at the moment.

_“You can hide behind your bravado all you like,_ Deputy. _Your luck won’t hold forever. Delay your confession as much as you can, but it will happen. I’ll make sure of it.”_

The key’s still in the ignition, and once Boomer hops up onto the passenger seat, tail wagging, Rook gets the van going. It rumbles to life after a few stutters, like every other vehicle in Holland Valley on the near-constant verge of breaking down.

“It’s a date then. What time d’you want me to pick you up, seven or so?” The van jolts when he drives over a bit of wreckage - part of an engine, looks like - and he pats the steering wheel apologetically. “You like flowers? You seem like the kind of guy who’d appreciate flowers.”

The radio clicks a couple times, little bursts of static as if John is grasping for a response that isn’t enraged screaming. Rook grins as he pictures him counting down from ten and taking calming breaths, knuckles white as he squeezes a stress ball or something like that. Or maybe the neck of one of the people he's kidnapped. That'd be pretty on-brand. 

John's so fucking easy to wind up, it’s great. Messing with his things wouldn’t be half so entertaining without the explosive reaction that always comes soon after, more and more frequently now that Rook’s fully on John’s radar. The man’s got a temper, and he really doesn’t like that Rook keeps evading his little strike teams.

_“Are you mocking me in the hopes it will grant you a quick death?”_ John’s voice is low and sharp, threat seeping so easily in that smooth, clear tone of his. Doesn’t carry as well as his brother’s, but it’s just as nice to listen to. It’s a good thing, considering all those speakers everywhere blaring their voices near constantly. _“There will be nothing_ quick _about your atonement. You will be punished, and then we’ll see if you’re worth saving.”_

“Gotta catch me first.”

Saving, huh? Is that what John thinks he’s doing with the people he tortures?

It fits with the whole fucked up notion the Seeds have about this reaping of theirs. Forceful conversions, using whatever method fits best - drugs, torture, fucking brainwashing if Dutch is right about what’s happening up north - to achieve their goal, no thought to how practical it is, just blind determination. No more time for the gradual conversion of people drawn in by Joseph’s charisma; now it’s full steam ahead to doomsday, anyone who resists crushed beneath their feet on the march to Eden’s Gate.

Hurt people, and they’re gonna hurt you back. Sure, you might get obedience in the short term, but shit like the Resistance is always going to show up in one form or another. And they only need one person to get close enough, one security flaw or moment of weakness, and without Joseph he can’t see the cult holding together for long. The cultists he’s listened in on do seem loyal to John, admire him as much as they’re terrified of him, but their whole deal depends on Joseph’s position as some kind of prophet.

Maybe he’d make a good martyr - dead men can do more for a cause as corpses than they ever could while breathing -, someone to rally around and drive their fanaticism to even greater heights. It’d all devolve into a Pyrrhic victory at best in that case. No more saving, just killing as many sinners as possible to avenge their lost leader, their dear Father.

Rook knows it says a lot about him that the idea of the chaos Joseph’s death would cause has a dangerous appeal to it. He won’t kill him, though. No use in ending the game so early, not when it’s set up so nice and neat with the three ‘Heralds’ of his. He knows how this works, and he won’t cheat. Promise.

“I’ll bring you sunflowers,” he says to John, fingers tapping against the wheel in a quick beat that matches one of the songs the cult likes playing. “Did you know they’ve been used to help soak up nuclear radiation? Apparently they’re great at absorbing toxins. Not just a pretty face, huh?”

He has to drop the radio when a fucking _buffalo_ decides to charge into the road, making him miss whatever John says in response.

* * *

The cultists do, eventually, get lucky.

It takes two more dead capture teams, better trained than the last - former military is his guess, soldiers or cops - and Rook is on the tail end of three days with about four hours sleep across the board. He’s been a real busy bee, chasing after Blissed-up bears and shooting at radio towers, checking out bunkers and making a note of them on his map, and he isn’t perfect. He’s going to slip up at some point, and all it takes is a moment of inattention after killing half the group, ears ringing from a grenade going off too close.

He gets shot.

The pain doesn’t hit like it should, and that’s when he knows something is really wrong. Then the world is fucking _twisting_ around him, smeared like a child’s painting, and he stumbles forward maybe five metres before his legs fold as if they’re made of lead. He hits the ground and the impact shakes up his knees, his side, sparking bright like the fireflies swimming across his vision.

His last coherent thought is _fuckers roofied me._

Next time he gets his eyes open, his legs are wet and then everything else is wet because he’s being held underwater, bubbles rippling up in front of his face - hey, that’s his breath, where the fuck does it think it’s going - and with about as much fight in him as a squashed grape. Too distracted by the way shadows play across the surface of the water, and then by the abrupt rush of air in his lungs when he’s pulled upright.

He feels- completely _fucked,_ head screwed on wrong and everything skewed a little to the left, tilted twenty degrees and counting. There’s a buzz under his skin, itching to get out and drip down his arms, and his attention is dragged in ten different directions at once - leaves rustling like bell chimes, the featherlight brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks, socks soggy with water and bunching around his toes, the way the air shifts and dances with every breath he takes - and _holy shit,_ he’s so high, he’s fucking high and he hates that shit, never again, not this, he fucking promised himself.

What, two overdoses weren’t enough, gotta go back for more?

Except- right, no, he didn’t do this, he got- shot, yeah? Tranquiliser or something, filled with shit, and there’s vivid green barrels pouring something into the river he’s in, water lapping at his side and mist gliding over the surface, glowing under the moonlight, it’s in the water, it’s fucking _Bliss._

He feels better with the answer to what’s causing this, even if it doesn’t mean he can do shit about the effects.

And boy, the effects. Turns the world into his own personal disco ball, lights reflecting and refracting and sound, holy shit, how come he never noticed how many layers there are in a single sound, just one word? And John, that’s John Seed right there with his pretty blue eyes and pretty tattoos and pretty scars, all blues and pale skin and dark hair that Rook wants to drag his hands through.

He’s saying some shit about Gates and Eden and _not clean,_ but how the hell is Rook supposed to focus on the words when he’s watching how the light bounces off the water and onto John’s eyes, makes them shift and swirl, pale as anything and still so bright, like moonlit ice over a deep, dark lake.

Silly John, don’t drug Rook so much if you want him to listen to your speech. Not the best plan.

John apparently disagrees, since Rook gets shoved back under the water again where all the Bliss is, remember John? Except John’s face is wavering like a mirage, like he isn’t really there at all, but there’s warm hands holding Rook down so he must be. He should come down here too, then he’d be real again, and Rook can watch his eyes some more.

His lungs are starting to burn a bit, which feels kind of funny. There can’t be a fire down there, he’s underwater. That’s not how fire works. His body doesn’t get the memo because the feeling gets worse, pressing up against his ribcage like it’s trying to fight out, gonna tear him open to escape, go full-on chestburster. Then Hope County would be really fucked, so he best not do that.

But eggs instead of pumpkins, it’d be perfect, no one would notice until boom! There goes your face! Like when he played hot potato with a grenade and the other guy just wasn’t as super-skilled as Rook, no one is, he’s the fucking best. Epic assassin man, killer of killers, the shadows have _teeth_ and when they smile you know to run, to flee, but he’ll always find you in the end. His theme song says so, just ask Denise, that shithead. He fucking loves her, she’s such a tool. She should be here, he should call her and then they could mess with the Seeds together, it’d be great.

Cold air breaks across his face when he’s pulled upright again. John’s face is close - Seeds and their inability to respect personal space, huh? - and searching, and he’s got sunglasses up on his head but there’s no sun, it’s nighttime, why’s he got sunglasses? They’re nice ones too, probably cost more than dear ol’ dad could’ve earned in months, more money than they ever would’ve seen at once before it went down the drain, alcohol or drugs and just that little bit left over to pay rent, maybe food if dad was feeling generous.

He’s about to go for another dip - still not clean, but he showered just yesterday, used up the last of a bottle of store brand shampoo that’d been half-empty when he picked it up - when another voice makes an appearance.

Joseph this time, instantly recognisable even when Rook’s half out of his mind. Rook’s heard him whisper, soft and threatening and close enough to feel breath fan across his face. Heard him scream with his face tipped towards the sky as he rallied his followers for the fight ahead.

Right now he’s hearing it all at once, and in a split second he’s in front of Joseph, legs left somewhere far behind and head floating, anchored in place by Joseph’s hands on him and the warm glow of a truck’s headlights.

Words start up again, and this close they burrow under his skin, seek to carve themselves a place deep inside him. So he makes the effort to listen, to pick apart the sounds and piece them into something that makes sense.

“Despite all that you have done, you are not beyond salvation. You’re not here by accident or by chance.”

_You’re right,_ he wants to nod, but he doesn’t know if his neck is still there so he can’t move his head just yet, maybe later. He isn’t here by accident or chance. He picked this place, chose Hope County and Michael Rook, and then he decided to stay. _Why_ he decided to stay doesn’t seem so important right now, not with Joseph Seed so solemn and serious and speaking to him like it matters.

“You are here by the grace of God,” Joseph says, and that doesn’t sound right. God is a lie, something to soften the blows that life doles out, and expecting Him to be there will only lead to disappointment. He’s just like people that way. Can’t rely on them, rely on no one but yourself, Rook, be strong enough to survive this world and get out of here, get as far _away as you can, and don’t let them hurt you again, you promise me, Rook._

“You’ve been given a gift. Now it remains to be seen whether you choose to embrace it…” Joseph’s intense gaze drops, voice softening and just as vivid, cuts into him just as easily. “…or to cast it aside.” The possibility sounds like it saddens him, and Rook wants to ask how much is real, where the Father ends and Joseph Seed begins.

He doesn’t get the chance. Joseph releases him and turns to John, John who’s right beside him, eyes averted and head bowed a little with a contriteness that doesn’t suit him but is painfully genuine.

“This one shall reach the Atonement,” Joseph says, draws John in to press their foreheads together, their eyes closing, and it makes Rook’s hands itch at the vulnerability of it. “Or the Gates of Eden shall be shut to you, John.”

“Yes, Joseph.”

And that’s- that’s not fair. Rook can’t be saved, can’t reach this Atonement they’re chasing after, want to drag him towards. Everything good in Rook was burnt out of him a long time ago, don’t they realise that? He’s a broken husk, innards scraped out and filled with whatever he needed to be, with blood and pain and false smiles, with the ability to survive and move forward and not much else. Saving him isn’t possible.

So it’s wrong to put it on someone else to try. John will fail, and Rook doesn’t know what these Gates are but they must be important for them to look so serious about it, and Rook doesn’t want to be used as a punishment. He isn’t good for much, but he doesn’t want to be that for anyone.

The protest sticks in his mouth, glues his lips together and weighs down his tongue. It’s better, out of the water, but his head still feels wrong, so he can’t say anything when Joseph walks away, can’t react to John leaning in with grim determination and scorn.

He’s told he’ll confess, re-phrasings of threats he’s heard over the radio for days, this time up close and personal and just for him. But if John wants to know his every sin they’d be there for hours, days, just listing every horrific thing he did for less than fifty dollars a day, and the only thing that changed is he was paid more the older he got, the better a murderer he became.

All because he didn’t care, didn’t have it in him to feel much anymore, and whatever was left in him when he joined up - too young but he looked older, had the money to get papers that held up, and good enough that no one looked too closely - was gone by the time he left his days of being a loyal soldier behind.

John doesn’t think he’s worthy of atonement, and he’s right. Rook gave that up when he pushed his dad in front of a truck, all of eleven years old and terrified (relieved, so fucking relieved he’d ran seconds after, crawled between a dumpster and an alley wall and cried for hours, cried until he threw up and couldn’t breathe).

Time passes in snapshots - the blaze of truck headlights, hands on his arms leading him to the back of a van, forcing him to sit, the rumble of the engine starting - and slowly, painfully, the Bliss relaxes its hold. The warm contentment and easy compliance cracks, shatters piece by piece until he’s sitting there with rage clawing at his gut and holding tight to the complete and utter certainty that he’s going to _ruin_ the Seeds.

They drugged him. Made him think of things he’s so fucking careful to avoid, made him compliant and useless, tore away the parts of him that know how to keep him safe.

He wants to do the same to them. Take away everything that gives them comfort, destroy their little armies and shelters and the illusion of power they hold so tight to. He wants them scared, wants them to know he’s coming for them, that he won’t ever give up or let them escape. He’ll hunt them across the fucking planet if he has to.

And Joseph, that fucking ringleader of theirs with his false sorrow and endless certainty, he’ll come for him last. Let him watch from his compound as his cause burns to ash around him, as his family are cut down one by one, leaving him alone and weak with the corpses of his loved ones at his feet.

He’ll break - all people break, in the end - and how’s that for the grace of God?

So it’s one pissed off Rook that Jerome gets the dubious pleasure of watching work after his valiant rescue. He doesn’t hold back this time, doesn’t play at being Michael. It’s Rook that tears through the cultists until there’s no one left standing, gets up close and personal faster than they can react, feels the crunch of bone under his knuckles and the blood splash across his clothes.

After a while the screams of pain all blend into one sound, gunfire and explosions and heat on his skin.

Bliss lingers in his system, makes the ground splinter under his feet and cultists multiply in front of his eyes. It’s disorienting, and its effects show in bruised ribs from a lucky hit, a few burns when he refuses to stop just because they start shooting missiles that make his vision wail and flicker. A bullet clips his shoulder when he’s manning the mortar, waiting for the Resistance’s helicopter to fly in, and he hardly feels it.

There’s nothing more to him right now than simple, vicious purpose. Than finding the next enemy, the next target, and putting them down.

* * *

Later, curled up against the wall in a storage room Mary May’s let him turn into a place to rest, Boomer’s head on his knee and a rifle in his hands, he lets himself shake apart.

It starts as small tremors in his hands, climbing slowly, inevitably, up his arms and then down to the rest of the body. His breath hitches with each shake that wrenches through him. He keeps his eyes open, watching the door he’s trapped to hell and back, the window he boarded up since the glass had been smashed in, and tries to ignore the shapes that play across his vision, twisting shadows up into faces and voices he hasn’t seen or heard in over a decade.

A cruel scowl, directionless rage at a world that’s turned its back one time too many, and Rook’s an easy target, always is. Hands on him, pushing, taking, knowing that no one will stop them or get in the way. A different hand dropping to the ground, warm still but not for long, and he can scream all he likes but that won’t change a thing, that gentle smile gone forever-

Boomer whines, presses his nose to Rook’s hand. Makes him jump, a wounded sound buried deep, caught before it can pass his lips. His fingers unclench from the gun, one by one, to rest jerkily on Boomer’s head. Soft fur under his sweaty palm, so different from the cold metal and plastic. Something living and present, here with him when he needs it.

Something vulnerable, just one more thing that can be taken from him. He should get rid of Boomer now, stop that from ever being a possibility. Never let them know they can hurt you, because they’ll do it without question, make you regret ever showing weakness.

But Boomer’s tail thumps softly against the floorboards as he presses into Rook’s hand, those big eyes of his utterly trusting, and it makes something catch in Rook’s chest. Dulls the roar of gunfire in his head, the sound of glass shattering and angry yells he’s never been able to drown out, not entirely, no matter what he tries or what shit he takes.

He’ll be okay by morning. Ready to get up again, to keep moving. But right now, he closes his eyes and pets this stupid, _good_ dog, and waits for it to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahh, Rook really doesn't like Bliss at all. Dude has some major hangups over drugs due to the Tragic Backstory I've had waaay too much fun developing for him. He's also got a bad case of PTSD he's generally okay at keeping under wraps, but you can bet there'll be plenty of future trauma times ahead (it's fun to write, what can I say). 
> 
> Also. Bliss. Okay, Bliss seems to just be whatever the heck is convenient for the plot in the game, so I'm going with the 'there's different types of Bliss and they have different effects' angle. Hence, the way this chapter veers from borderline (?) crack into trauma town. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! As always, they're really encouraging and I love reading every single comment, you guys have no idea. I hope you like my interpretation of John, since he's got a bit more dialogue this chapter (and will for the next few as well) - I've done my best throughout this fic to get the Seeds' 'voices' right, or at least make it fun to read!


	4. Chapter 4

Rook whistles as he walks down the road, Boomer trotting at his side and the midday sun warming his skin, bringing out more freckles than he’s sported in a while.

His head’s cleared up by now. Nothing a little rest and some murder couldn’t fix, and he’s able to take a step back. Let bygones be bygones. He can’t take this all so personally, you know? It’s a game after all. The Seeds are gonna use the advantages they have, can’t blame them for that even if the idea of being under the influence of Bliss again makes his skin crawl. They don’t know the first thing about him, so it wasn’t even a targeted strike at a sore point of his. No need to get all offended and vengeful, not when it’d mean things would end far too quickly for his liking.

He can’t just kill them. That’s so _dull,_ too straightforward and simple for him to get much enjoyment out of it. Sure, he likes plotting out a hit, figuring out the best way to take someone down and then succeeding against all odds. But this is different. Special. It needs some weight to it, the extra _oomph_ of a drawn-out conflict, tensions heightening with every meeting, the clawing desperation of abruptly finding yourself on the losing side of a conflict you thought you’d already won.

He wants Joseph and John to get to experience that, and they won’t if he just kills them off. So he packs away the anger, cuts it down into something he can use, that can drive him forward rather than leading him astray. Goes back to friendly, helpful Deputy Rook, a little less Michael in him but just as disarming.

Taps his radio and thinks about crooning back those threats John loves to dish out, considers how heavily to weigh his voice, every word personal and intimate as he describes just what he’d love to do to John, how he’d hurt him so nicely, take his time painting him with some new scars.

Thinks of Joseph in his church, pews empty of his followers and no one to throw themselves in the way, just the two of them and all the time in the world.

The radio picks up a distress call not all that far from Rook, an airfield up the road, and it’s as good a distraction as any.

* * *

So. He’s gonna steal a plane back from John Seed.

“What do you think-” He looks down at Boomer as they approach the ranch, on foot now after driving most of the distance in a car with Sinner scrawled across the bonnet. “-loud or stealthy?”

Because on one hand, he’d kind of love to kill all John’s men and torch the place. It’d make it clear to John that if Rook really wants to kill him, he isn’t safe no matter how many people stand between them. For all John’s smugness, that would have to shake him up a bit. It’d be cathartic, too, breaking the same people who tracked him down and drugged him, or were at least complicit in it - approving, even.

Yet it seems too- blunt.

It’s like when you want to sleep with someone. You don’t just match up to them and say, “Wanna fuck?” (Not without getting punched in the face at least a few times). You flirt with them, see if they’re interested and fan the flames a bit, leave them wanting more. This is the same, except the opposite.

(Murder is kind of the opposite of sex, right? Guess it depends on the kinks involved?)

Point is, he doesn’t want to ramp things up too fast. Gotta have that proper built up, the escalations that’ll make victory all the sweeter. He needs to be patient, and patient means not letting on everything he’s capable of right off the bat.

So he flicks through frequencies until he finds one John’s people use. Oh, they try using codes and shit, but all it’d taken was a bored afternoon walking around the valley between outposts for him to crack it. Within a few minutes of listening he knows that John isn’t at the ranch, up visiting Joseph at his compound, leaving the ranch with a skeleton crew. More than enough to keep the Resistance from taking the place, but they haven’t quite cottoned on to the fact that they’ll need a much bigger force to handle Rook.

Still. He’s doing subtle, here.

So he leaves Boomer to wait in the treeline, sneaks up behind a patrolling guard, and knocks him out. It feels odd to choke someone out and not break their neck, but he’s decided to do a no-kill run today. He’ll get out of practice otherwise, and there’s nothing more embarrassing than killing someone you mean to leave alive. Knocked out, tied up and gagged in a bush, but alive.

(Okay, maybe he’s also showing off a bit. Not giving away what he can do entirely, but giving a little taster, letting John know not to underestimate him too much. Testing the waters.)

The cultist is big enough that the sweater and bulky coat actually fit, only pulling a little at the arms. Rook still hasn’t shaved yet - probably will after this, didn’t do him much good on the not getting caught front - which means as long as no one looks too closely, and after he musses his hair, he could almost pass for a cultist. Maybe he should start singing that cute little song of John’s, help him fit in and really sell the part.

He makes his way to the lodge at an unhurried amble. Pratt complained about the place once after a run-in with John, talking about how the Seeds shouldn’t have been allowed to clear an area of land this big just to plunk down a rich boy getaway.

It really does stick out like a sore thumb, for all that it’s trying so hard to imitate a rustic look despite being three stories of overpriced wood - not even native to the area, by the looks of it - and little glass windows thick enough to hint at being bulletproof. Carries a similar air to the fancy ski resort in Switzerland he visited a few years ago. Although there’s less chance of accidentally triggering an avalanche when fleeing the scene of a murder, so that’s nice.

The inside isn’t much better. First thing he sees is a gaudy chandelier made of antlers, and that isn’t the end of the dead-animals-as-furniture parade. There’s a legit bear rug in the corner and more stuffed animals around the place, their heads up on walls.

Rook never understood the practice - you don’t seem him doing the same with human heads, do you? - and he gets the feeling that John _probably_ didn’t kill these himself. Doesn’t seem the outdoorsy type, with those designer clothes and perfectly groomed appearance, hair neatly slicked back and beard closely trimmed. It has him standing out from the rest of the cult, with the scraggly hairstyles and overgrown beards that seem to be the trend.

Wonder if Joseph disapproves of the ranch, considering his preaching about the dangers of a materialistic, consumer-focused society. Must’ve been a tough adjustment for John, going from being a high-flying lawyer enjoying the city life and with the kind of money that has every door open to you, to living out in rural Montana where the highlight of the year is the Testy Festy.

Maybe he started torturing people out of sheer boredom. Rook gets that.

There’s no one inside the lodge, giving Rook free range of the place. The answering machine flashes with a voicemail and he lets it play as he wanders, eyebrows raising at the sight of cult memorabilia inside a cabinet. There are some books in there with the cult’s symbol on it, and when he picks it up he finds it’s Joseph’s own personal bible.

Right, some of the outposts have had these in them, and he’s sure he saw a couple in the compound’s church. He’ll have to take it with him and have a read through in his spare time. There’s got to be something substantial to the cult’s doctrine to get so many joining up.

Unless the hot leaders are the main draw. In which case, understandable.

The voicemail is an interesting insight into Joseph’s care and worry for his brother (and manipulation, but hey, what family doesn’t have some fucked up ways to control each other?). His vague, hazy memories from the river have John acting deferential to Joseph, almost afraid - at least of disappointing Joseph. It’s good confirmation that killing John would indeed be a blow to Joseph.

The recording ends, and Rook heads up the stairs. There’s a set of double doors at the top, another that leads onto the balcony, and he peeks out to check there’s no one patrolling up here. All clear. He drifts back over to the double doors and tries the brass handle. Locked.

His lock-picking skills are rusty and he’s missing out on the tools he needs, so he settles for forcing the door open. A hard kick at just the right angle has the door splintering around the lock and swinging open, and he pauses. No sounds of alarm or chatter over the radio. The doors and windows are all closed and last he saw there wasn’t anyone right outside, so he should be fine. Not even any cameras around.

No one comes running in or sets off an alarm, and Rook steps into a hallway. There’s more doors going off of it and an open living space at the very end. First door he tries reveals a room packed with model planes on every surface, some dangling from wires, has him raising his eyebrows and fighting the urge to mess with them.

But no, he’s here on a mission - gotta stay focused.

Rook diverts through a doorway on the right leading into what must be John’s bedroom. Not as lavish as he’d expect from a guy like John, no huge flatscreen TVs and speaker systems, or any trinkets apart from a few more model planes sat on the shelves. And there’s a lot of books. Practically a small library’s worth, taking up most of the wall space aside from the section dedicated to a surprising amount of family photos, like the one he saw back in the trailer with Burke. Less creepy, though, since it’s actually John’s family here.

He picks up one photo frame set on the shelf near the door that leads out onto the balcony, window covered by white gauze curtains. It’s of all three Seed brothers standing beside the compound’s church, Joseph in the middle with his hands on his brothers’ shoulders. They’re smiling, pride shining in John’s face while the other two are a bit more subdued, but it’s there.

They look happy, and…softer, he supposes, than they’d been last he saw them. Likely because they aren’t facing arrest.

He sets the frame back down and moves on.

There are law books on the bookshelves, which make sense, and several on plane manoeuvres and maintenance. The collection of fiction books is a suprise; there’s plenty of action and adventure and sci-fi novels with worn pages and creased spines, tucked between the larger non-fiction books like John’s trying to minimise their presence.

The large room is on the minimalistic side apart from that. Still, the king-sized bed has silk sheets and the wardrobe is filled with tailor-made clothes, so it’s safe to say that John isn’t too sold on being frugal.

Rook grins as he strides into the bathroom and sees the huge, fancy-pants shower.

Hot water is hard to come by, people being even more conservative when there’s Bliss being thrown in the river and you can’t trust any steady water supply not to get tainted. Plenty of preppers have their own supply and the generators to warm it up, but when no one knows when this mini civil war will end, stuff like regular hot showers can be low on priority. A real travesty.

Rook likes being clean. Maybe a dumb thing to care so much about, but for a lot of his life he didn’t get a choice either way. When he was a kid the water got shut off every other month, as a teenager it was either looking presentable or staying out of sight, and as a soldier- well, he got the basics in between months of slogging through the shit thrown his way.

Now that he can control how he looks, he likes to at least keep himself from stinking to high heaven, and a hot shower is the epitome of everything he loves about civilisation.

So Rook has absolutely zero shame in stripping down in John Seed’s bathroom and making the most of it.

The shower’s got a hundred settings he can’t be bothered to figure out, just puts it on a setting that has a heavy spray hitting him hard from three different showerheads. The groan that leaves him is appropriately sinful, his hands braced on the tiles as he appreciates the sensation of heat seeping down into his bones.

He watches the water darken around the plughole with the dirt and blood he’s picked up recently, the wounds from yesterday stinging. He had a wash down when he got back last night, wanting the Bliss off his skin (doesn’t think about it still being in his system, the utter lack of side effects somehow worse than any headache or craving), but it was nowhere as near as satisfying as this.

He steals some shampoo and conditioner, the kind of expensive brand boasting how it’d revitalise your hair with the power of aloe vera and honey. Thankfully there’s a bottle of body wash rather than soap - he isn’t that kind of creep, jeez. He hums contently when he’s finally able to drag himself from the shower (the floor is heated, _dang_ but Rook wishes he could drop in here regularly, maybe try out the clawfoot tub). He grabs a towel neatly folded up in the cupboard, instead of the fluffy navy one sitting on the heated rack.

Peering at himself in the fogged-up mirror, he frowns at the facial hair he’s got growing in. It doesn’t suit him, and he’s used to being clean-shaven. His eyebrows raise when he finds a straight razor in the cupboard. Reminds him of _Sloth_ carved into John’s chest, and the threats of cutting a sin of his own into Rook’s skin.

The razor is sharp when he tests it, and makes short work of getting him back to looking close to normal. Only close, because there’s a brightness to his eyes that he hasn’t seen since he first decided to strike out on his own, leaving the military without hesitation.

Things really have slowed down lately, huh? No more big challenges, a gradual lessening in how eager he gets for the next hit until it became something too much like routine all over again. He keeps himself busy, and it isn’t like he’s getting bored with it. Goes different places, finds new experiences. Sees how far he can get to the edge before he falls.

But this? Up against a fucking cult? Yeah, that’s exciting all right.

The towel goes in the hamper like the good guest he is, and he’s kind enough to properly wash the razor before putting it back. It’s just a little out of place, enough for anyone looking close to notice. He brought his pack with him, so he even gets to change into nice clean clothes - and the cultist’s jumper and coat on top - after sorting out a new bandage for the bullet graze, luckily shallow enough that his stitches are holding up okay.

He’s on his way out when he spots the pair of sunglasses on the dresser. Another fancy brand, similar to the ones John was wearing at the river but with darker lenses. A smile tugs at his mouth as he plucks them up and rests them on his head, using them to hold back a few stray strands of hair that keep falling into his eyes.

There are a few rooms going off the hallway, so he decides to check out the rest before leaving. First stop is a very well-stocked kitchen. Rook happily steals all the tea in the cupboards, a bag of sugar, a salt shaker, and some cheap packaged waffles that don’t fit at all with the fresh and healthy foods filling the kitchen. Including freshly baked bread, who the fuck has the time to make that? These cultists have way too much spare time on their hands.

The formerly locked office is up next. On the dark, glossy desk (ebony? Talk about having cash to burn) is a radio system and high-quality microphone, explaining the clarity of John’s voice and the lack of background noise whenever he gets chatty.

He roots through the desk for anything of interest, but there’s a setup - keyboard and mouse, plus one of those mats with the gel wrist support - for a laptop that isn’t there currently. Seems like John keeps anything important on that rather than paper.

There _is_ a big map on the wall; it’s a lot like Dutch’s but with way more detail on John’s region. Rook makes a note of the silos, outposts and any other points of interest on his own map, and finally discovers the exact positions of all those bunkers the Seeds built. There are plans on how to get their people to each of them when doomsday comes, little leaflets with simple step-by-step instructions that must’ve been handed out to the non-combatant cultists, and in the wastebasket there’s a scribbled out note about adding more hangar space.

The biggest find of the day is a cell phone sitting in the desk. Must be a spare; It isn’t locked when he turns it on, and there’s nothing on it except a few contacts; no messages or anything. But in the top right corner, there’s that little, blessed icon showing three bars of signal.

Did Eden’s Gate set up their own towers or something? Or tap into the ones already there for their own use, rather than blocking them completely? The Resistance is still trying to sort something out more secure than radio, having to resort to code when they aren’t desperate enough to just call for help without any regard to who’s listening.

He pops out the SIM card and puts it in his own phone, back to functioning after spending a few days in a packet of rice to dry it out. Saves the contacts to the SIM first, because hey, who knows when he might fancy chatting up the cult higher ups.

Sinking down into the plush leather seat, he dials a number he memorised a few weeks before coming to Hope County, the latest change to a new number. It picks up after only a couple of rings.

_“Who the hell is this and how did you get my number? Did Sharon give it you? I bet she did, that stuck up tart-”_

Rook laughs and leans back in the chair. “Hey, Denise.”

There’s a pause, then- _“Rook?! Is that you? Where the fuck have you been, you jackass?!”_

Denise Woods, biggest bitch on her side of the Atlantic, still soft enough to sound relieved to hear from him. Makes him feel all warm and gooey inside.

“Got a bit caught up.”

She puts it together quick. _“That cult of yours have a party I didn’t get invited to? You know I can’t stand being left out. Makes me insecure and shit, you should know better.”_

“It was a bit of a surprise bash. I didn’t get much warning - wasn’t even in my Sunday best.” Seriously, he feels naked with only a basic Kevlar vest and guns he’s picked up from dead cultists.

_“Hope they weren’t offended.”_

“Nah, they’re real hospitable. Had a hard time leaving at the end of the night, but I’d do it all over again, you know?”

_“Yeah, I get you.”_ She hums, low and thoughtful. _“Can’t imagine this’ll be their last do, not when the weather’s so nice over there - much better than here, can barely go outside with it storming down.”_

He frowns. It’s getting worse, then? Things were tense when Rook went to Hope County, rising tensions, men with too much power and too little sense with their fingers on the trigger. The threat of global catastrophe isn’t exactly a new thing, but it’s still something to keep aware of. “Best to keep inside. Your hair will go all frizzy if you don’t.”

_“Oh, fuck you.”_ He can hear the fond smile in her voice. _“That shit’s what umbrellas are for, dumbass.”_

“Could use an umbrella over here sometimes.”

_“There’s supposed to be some rainfall coming your way in-”_ A soft tapping of a keyboard, barely discernible. _“-a week. What part of the county are you in?”_

“South-west, s’called Holland Valley.”

_“Gotcha. Still gonna be there when it rolls in?”_

“Yep.”

_“Keep indoors then, try out that shitty looking diner or something.”_

He looks at the map. There’s an old diner south from Fall’s End, the one Pratt loved the coffee from and would drag him to if they were patrolling nearby, those rare times Rook actually got out of the station.

Mary May let him know that the station got torched near the beginning of all this, along with the house Rook had been renting. Not too much of a loss, considering he hadn’t had chance to ferry in weapons to fill the place with aside from a couple handguns and a hunting rifle. It’ll be nice to get his hands on the good stuff again.

“I’ll give it a shot. Can’t be any worse than your cooking.”

She scoffs. _“See if I ever treat your ungrateful ass again. I’m so good to you and this is all I get? You could at least put out.”_

“I keep telling everyone I’m not that easy.”

_“Everyone, huh?”_ Denise purrs, and he can imagine her leaning back in her swivel chair, smile wide and intrigued. _“Do tell.”_

“You’d like him. He’s just your type - pretty boy lawyer, blue eyes, tattoos. Got a sadistic streak for sure.”

She wolf whistles. _“Get a photo for me? Your pinup is starting to get a bit worn around the edges.”_

He snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It feels- really nice, talking to Denise. After last night, she’s probably the one person in the world who can make him feel normal again. And she’s even sending over a care package free of charge, well aware of how much his lack of gear is bothering him without him needing to say anything at all. It’s too bad she couldn’t be here with him, busy with surveillance that’s been going on for months, too big of a project to just drop.

Her tone’s sober when she next speaks. _“You keeping safe?”_

And yeah, she knows him too well.

_Keep acting so eager to die and no amount of luck is gonna keep you breathing,_ she’d once said in a tense growl, struggling to support his weight. He’d had countless wounds and less blood in his body than there was painting some bastard’s torture basement, too injured to take care of it himself. Too reckless, and he tries to be cautious for her, for the part of him that wants to keep living if only to prove a point to everyone who’s tried to kill him. Spite, the most powerful motivator of them all.

But he isn’t being careful, here. Not really. He’s building himself up to being the biggest target possible. Already has John’s attention, and he isn’t gonna stop there. He won’t lie, not to Denise.

“I’ll try.” He taps his fingers against the desk, a soft beat against dense wood. He imagines John sitting in the plush leather chair, working away at the operations the cult has ongoing - and the frustration he must feel when Rook keeps ruining them. Great way to cheer him up. “I’ll use a condom and everything, I promise.”

_“You fucking better. The only babies you’re allowed to have are mine. You hear me, you skank?”_

“Loud and clear, bitch.”

She hangs up on him - never one for goodbyes - and he realises he’s still grinning away like an idiot. He sends Denise a selfie because she has a hilarious obsession with his dimples. And because he knows that if the Seeds have any sense at all they’ll be keeping track of any calls or messages on phones of theirs, and he’s hoping to give John some extra fuel for his next rant.

* * *

Breaking into the hangar is even easier than the lodge, the door unlocked and a guard easily bypassed by waiting for him to turn the corner. And there the Carmina is, the cheerful yellow disguising how old the plane must be, considering Rye said it’s been passed down since World War II.

A lot of the planes Rook’s seen the cult using are like it, older models or modified crop-dusters, noisy enough that they’re easy to avoid as long as he keeps in cover. Guess Eden’s Gate has a liking for the classics? Or it’d be too noticeable - and a waste of money - to get newer, fancier planes when the ones they have will do just as well at mowing down fleeing civilians. Just add machine guns and you’re sorted.

He checks that the cockpit is big enough for a passenger, then goes out to fetch Boomer. The best boy in the whole wide world is sitting close by where he left him, a layer of dirt coating his fur where he’s no doubt been rolling around. His tail starts wagging hard the moment Rook comes close, back end wiggling like he wants to leap at him, but it’s only when Rook whistles that he comes running.

He pats Boomer’s head, playing the with soft velvet of his ears, and taps the side of his thigh in a gesture for Boomer to keep close and quiet. The quiet part is a work in progress, but Boomer’s a smart dog and doesn’t move from his side even when his ears start twitching, picking up on the sniper humming to himself on the roof of the lodge. He’s more cautious this time, double checks there’s no one around before darting into the hangar.

Getting Boomer into the cockpit is a fun time. Boomer is at first very enthusiastic about being lifted, taking the opportunity to cover Rook’s face in slobber. He’s less pleased about the small space, giving a piteous whine when Rook gets the hangar doors open and starts up the engine.

“Won’t be for long,” he soothes, guiding the plane onto the runaway and hearing a surprised yell from behind him. Wasn’t really any way to do this part without getting noticed - the rumble of the engine isn’t exactly subtle - so he plans on simply getting in the air before they come after him.

Now, he just needs to remember how to fly a plane.

He’s done it before. Helicopters were the only ones he got trained on, but you have to adaptable in a job like his, and sometimes you need to steal a plane to escape the desert base of a very pissed off private militia. This time he’s lucky enough to have Rye giving an impromptu lesson over the radio, directing Rook after a few easy targets along the way back to the airfield.

He lands with only a bit of bumpiness, jarring forward and making Boomer yelp. The poor dog leaps out of the plane the second Rook opens the top up.

The action interrupts Rye’s effusive thanks. “You put your dog in my plane?” he asks, bewildered.

Rook climbs down the side of the plane and shrugs. “I wasn’t gonna leave him at the ranch, was I?”

That earns him a long, blank stare, before Rye reboots. “Whatever man, I still can’t believe you got my plane back. Not even a scratch on her! Come on, help me turn her around.”

Five minutes later, Rook finds himself in the midst of another shootout when the cultists come after them. Which seems a bit unfair, considering he was nice enough to leave all the ones at the lodge alive. And it isn’t like he technically even stole from them; it doesn’t count if the plane wasn’t theirs in the first place.

Later on he picks up his radio to complain, still in the Rye’s living room. Nick insisted he stay for a beer, his wife Kim making it dinner instead, and Rook hadn’t seen any reason to refuse. The Ryes seem like decent people, though he isn’t sure he agrees with their decision to stick around Hope County when Kim is very pregnant - like, about to burst any day now pregnant. Sure, he can get wanting to stand up against the Seeds, but with a kid on the way? Might be one fight it’s best to leave for someone else. Still, their choice and all.

Finding a frequency John favours, Rook presses down on the receiver. “I know you like your planes, John, but did you really need to steal Rye’s?”

He sinks back into the couch. Nick’s out checking on his plane, but Kim is there to shoot him a confused look from the kitchen. He smiles back blandly. She promptly kicked him out when he offered his help and insisted he sit his ass down after the day he’s had, so it’s her fault he’s bored enough to call up John.

Okay, that’s a lie. Rook just really can’t resist poking at John a bit. Guy has a temper and it’s always spectacular when he blows up. He’s- emotional, that’s the impression Rook’s gotten so far. He seemed pretty collected in that video and his broadcasts, but it didn’t hold up well the few times Rook’s interacted with him. Maybe it’s just Rook that pushes his buttons?

_“Deputy.”_ John is very good at packing a lot of feeling in just a few syllables. He’s clearly restraining himself right now, an electric current of violence running beneath tight control, and Rook wonders how much it’ll take to shatter that delicate composure.

_“You came into my home, stole from me, used my-”_ He cuts himself off with a strangled noise that sounds confused more than anything else. Rook grins. “ _What was the point of it, Deputy? All that effort for a single plane?”_

“Look who’s talking.” He hums, keeps the button pressed in so John can hear the amused consideration. “Honestly, I’d go through a lot more effort for that shower of yours. How much did you pay for the thing? Whatever it was, worth every penny.”

There’s a stretch of static as he waits for John’s response. Kim smothers a laugh against her palm, an incredulous expression of her face. “You used his shower?”

“Sure did.” He sighs longingly. “It was amazing.”

“You’re crazy, I hope you know that.” Yeah, he’s heard it once or twice.

_“Is this because I said you were unclean?”_

Both of them stare at the radio in bemused silence. Kim snorts hard, shakes her head and focuses back on putting something together for dinner. Evidently dismissing both Rook and John.

“Uh…No. Did that happen at the river? Because honestly, I was so high I barely remember it all.” His nose wrinkles in offence. “You called me dirty?”

_“You barely remember- Ah, that’s a potential reaction to Bliss. You must have a lower tolerance for it than most, Deputy.”_ He says it like he’s pleased, something he can use against him, and yeah, Rook is still plenty pissed about that.

“I remember Joseph scolding you like a misbehaving puppy,” he drawls. “That happen often?”

_“I-”_ Rook can imagine him gritting his teeth, biting back whatever threat he wants to snarl out. He’s been working on his impulse control since the river, huh? Maybe it was better before this shitshow started, had to be going by the glowing reputation he’d had among a lot of the county officials, but his people mask must not have gotten much maintenance in a while. Gotta be hard, trying to reign yourself in after finally getting the chance to act however you want.

_“Your petty behaviour only stands against you, Deputy.”_ Oh, he’s trying for cajoling now, voice like honey even with all that sharpness underneath. _“You can be so much more than this. All you have to do is take the hand offered to you, and I will lead you on that path. You simply have to say_ yes.”

_Yes,_ like that Hollywood sign of his. _Yes,_ like his little recruitment video, the one that kicked things into a new direction no matter its original intent.

“John,” he says, chuckles low in his throat and makes his voice just that bit rougher, draws his words out. “You’re gonna have to try a lot harder to have me saying yes to you.”

Then he turns the radio off because he knows when to leave things on a high note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I said before that this fic gets mildly crackish at times? Yeah, this is one of those times. 
> 
> Bit more of a chill chapter before we ramp up again next time. Also, cell phones are definitely on the list of 'I don't care if this isn't how they should work, it's for the sake of Plot and Amusement'. 
> 
> Denise is an OC who...wasn't meant to be anything more than mentioned in passing in the first chapter, but ended up being pretty useful for showing how Rook is when he's more relaxed with someone (and for later plotiness). So, she'll be around but not a super major part if you aren't a fan of OCs having too much screen time. 
> 
> Oh, and I'll probably change to a one update a week schedule since working on some other fics, but I've got 30+ chapters of this done so that'll all be uploaded no matter what.


	5. Chapter 5

Dinner at the Ryes gives Rook a chance to play with his own people mask. Because the thing is? Situation is so fucked that it’s hard to know how much he needs it.

This isn’t Before, when killing was seen as morally wrong - with the exceptions of war and self-defence. Hell, the people here consider themselves to be in a war all of their own, and the cultists are fair game. Rook isn’t killing any of the ‘good guys’, so it’s fine that he’s brutally mowing through countless people as long as they’re on the other side. He doesn’t need to pretend to feel bad about murder, or act like he hesitates to kill, because here and now it’s ideal to have someone around with his skills and lack of empathy.

Not that the cultists are seen as deserving of empathy by the locals.

Nick spends half the dinner crowing in excitement over shooting peggies from the sky. He laughs at the memory of them scattering when Rook started launching pipe bombs from the hangar’s roof, his only complaint that he’ll have to repair parts of the runway.

Kim rolls her eyes, feeds a whining Boomer some scraps and asks Rook about his life before all this.

He tells them he moved around a lot - true - and that he’s had a lot of odd jobs - also true - before setting his heart on becoming a deputy - sort of, close to true? It’s less like building another identity, and more giving a sanitised, family-friendly version of his background. Of him, really.

“So, you’re a city boy,” Nick says with the smug superiority of someone who’s probably never seen a city in his life. Except from his plane, maybe. “How’s the real world treatin’ you? Get mauled by a bear yet?”

Twice, actually. There are fresh new scars curled around his bicep from a bite that threatened to tear his arm off, before Boomer distracted the bear enough for Rook to get his knife up. Took several heart-pounding seconds to saw through the bear’s throat and left him drenched in blood afterwards. The next time he was ready, got himself up high and took potshots until the animal ran off.

Nick looks impressed when Rook shows off the scars, raises his beer to knock against Rook’s glass of lemonade. Then he regales him with his own stories of wildlife run-ins, while Kim pitches in with a few of her - usually less embarrassing - encounters.

It’s…kind of nice, actually. They don’t send him off with another errand he can get done for them. Nick just expresses his thanks one last time, and offers to swoop in with air support whenever he needs it. Meanwhile Kim makes him promise to come around again - “Someone needs to make sure you’re still alive, if you’re gonna be taunting John Seed like that.” - and he gives a bemused agreement.

The people here are weird, but he decides they’re his kind of weird. Maybe he’ll keep an eye on the Ryes. Never know when you could use a pilot, after all.

* * *

He gets a few days of fucking up John’s operations before there are more capture teams sent after him.

Maybe they’ve been searching the whole time, but Rook’s decided to be even more of a nuisance than normal. He hits an outpost up north, one of the farms John bought before all this went down, which the cultists have been getting as much food from as possible. Then he jumps in a helicopter stolen from the cult and heads south to blow up some convoys, on the move again within minutes to shoot cultists dumping Bliss in the water.

The Project’s radio channels get panicked as they try to keep track of where he is, checking in on their people more often - and that slow realisation when no one picks up is a high all of its own.

Along the way, Rook stops by the Lamb of God Church to defend some graves. Not his usual shtick, he’ll grant it that, but he’s doing a lot of stuff lately that deviates from his normal routine. This is at least saner than whatever the hell is going on with Larry Parker.

Grace Armstrong is one tough cookie. He falls in love with her sniping skills, and though the green sight bemuses him at first, it’s handy for letting him know when he can ignore a soon-to-be corpse. They make a good team, her picking cultists off while he gets up close and personal.

Hey, best way to get past a bunch of armour is to run up and break the guy’s neck. Everyone knows that.

“You sure ain’t afraid to get your hands dirty,” Grace comments dryly in the aftermath. He’s helping her clear out the dead cultists from the graveyard, giving her an up close view of protruding bones and slashed throats. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch once.

“Neither are you.” The caved-in chests and shattered skulls are mostly her work, bullet rounds punching through bodies with efficient ease. The expertise would’ve given her away as ex-military if the camo jacket and bulletproof vest already hadn’t.

They heave a corpse onto the bed of a truck, ready to be rolled into an outpost a ways down the road. Rook’s planning to bury some remote explosives in the pile, see how many cultists he can get with them. It’ll be a good distraction at the very least.

“Never shied away from it.” Grace looks up at him, reserved but not wary. She can see what he is, at least a little of it, and maybe she’s decided since he’s playing nice she doesn’t need to guard against him. Not when he helped her out for nothing in return. “Don’t seem like violence is all that new to you. Aren’t you a Junior Deputy?”

“I’ve had an interesting life.” He smiles, friendly and at ease. He knows when to tuck in his claws, and it isn’t pretending or lying when he leaves that sharp side of himself for situations where it’s necessary. Everyone does that, acts different depending on the situation, the people you’re with.

Grace snorts, and drops that line of questioning. They work in easy silence, clearing up the graveyard so the only bodies in it are the ones under six feet of soil. He avoids standing on any of the graves, skin itching at the memory of dirt under his fingers and the crushing weight above him, and starts whistling to drown out the echo of his own screams.

He’s glad to get away, though not before Grace offers her skills if he ever needs a sharpshooter. Seems like he’s picking up allies left and right lately. Maybe to make up for the enemies he’s making? Balance it all out. As much as he likes the one-man army narrative, it’s cool to know he has support if he gets in a tough spot.

Dead body barrage sent on its way, Rook jogs up the road to get in a truck that only has a few dents and bullet holes in it. Practically brand new compared to every other vehicle he’s seen lately. He checks his phone before he gets going - still seven days to go before Denise’s drop will arrive, since a ‘week’ always means nine days over unsecured communication - and finds himself intrigued by the name that chooses now to flash across the screen.

He picks up, elbow resting in the open widow. “Hello, Joseph.”

_“Deputy.”_ They do love saying that title of his, don’t they? You’d think he didn’t have a perfectly good name they could use. _“I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to destroy all that we have built, and distract us from the clarity of our cause. It will not work.”_

“Is this about John?” He tamps down on the glee, lets himself sound relaxed and casual, like he’s chatting with an old friend.

This is the first time he’s had chance to really interact with Joseph. The church didn’t count, not when he’d been playing at being Michael and just followed along with Whitehorse’s directions. Neither did the river when he’d been Blissed out of his mind, unable to respond to anything Joseph said.

He’ll admit to being curious about the man who gathered so many people to his side, all full of belief in him and willing to die under his banner, and his utter lack of hesitation in kicking off a fight that’s already seen dozens dead. Who is Joseph Seed, beside the Father with his fanatic certainty that he’s following God’s plan?

“I didn’t realise I was distracting him so much,” Rook adds. Teases, really, because he _does_ like the idea of distracting John.

_“You taunt him,”_ Joseph argues, a hint of steel under that unshakable composure of his. _“You drive him to his worst impulses. You cannot see that he’s trying to help you. We all are, if you would only accept it. My family and I are not some great evil for you to overcome.”_

“I know, I read your book.”

There’s silence. Joseph didn’t expect that, did he? That Junior Deputy Rook, growing hero of the Resistance, would deign to sit down and read the Book of Joseph. It was an interesting read, revealing as much as it left obscured. Read more like a biography than a bible, apart from the bits about sin and Eden, and the _many_ faults of society that echo the broadcasts Joseph’s put out.

He wonders how much of the history described in it is true, what parts are altered to appeal to his followers, aside from the obvious thread of preaching throughout. He doesn’t doubt the childhood abuse was real. Maybe it gives Joseph some form of control, to create his own narrative of the events and throw it out into the world, to make it something people can’t use against him anymore.

But that’s a flawed strategy. People can always find ways to use your past, your deepest hurts and fears, to harm you all over again. Rook just isn’t at the point where he’ll sink so low.

“Your dedication is admirable, I’ll give you that.” Can’t be easy to hold onto your belief for so long, against a world that tells you you’re crazy. Not just that, but tells you that you don’t belong, never did, and if it had its way you’d be dead in some alleyway where it didn’t have to see you anymore.

_“But you don’t believe.”_

“Not in the way you do. Everything ends, one way or another. ” He leans into the breeze coming through the open window as his eyes trace over the treetops. The sun’s getting close to setting, painting the sky an array of golden shades above the distant mountains. It’s a beautiful place, Hope County. He can see why Joseph chose it.

“‘Those who expected lightning and thunder, are disappointed,’” he murmurs, quoting poetry Denise would tease him for reading. He likes it, though. Likes the different interpretations poems can have, the depths of emotion he can usually only guess at, never quite sure of himself. “But you’re not too busy to be a prophet, are you Joseph?”

_“I did not ask for this. I was chosen.”_ And he doesn’t sound proud of that, like some would. It sounds as if it weighs on him, and if his book has any truth to it, yeah, maybe it does. Still doesn’t change a thing, in the end.

“But every action you take now is your choice, isn’t it?”

_“I will do what I must to ensure the faithful survive the Collapse. To cleanse the many souls begging for absolution, and bring them into Eden.”_ So sure of himself, no room left for doubt. Because if it started to creep in, if he questioned what he was doing, whether it was the right course of action - that would break a man like Joseph. Blind faith has its cost. _“Everything I do, is to save them. To save you, if you would allow it.”_

_Everything good in you was burned out a-_ He stamps down on the voice calling out from the depths of his memories, buries it all over again and _hates_ the fucking Bliss that helped dig it out.

It makes his voice harsher than he intends. “Why? Why so determined to save me, out of all the _sinners_ in Hope County? What is it about me that’s so deserving?” He scoffs. “Because I got away? Because I fucked with your plans?”

_“Because I looked into your eyes and I did not see fear, or judgement, or disdain.”_ His voice goes soft, quiet so Rook has to pay attention to catch each word. _“I saw a man adrift. You were not one of them, not even when you followed their orders and played at mindless obedience. You hide yourself well.”_

Rook’s fingers tighten on the phone, making the plastic creak warningly.

_“I understand. You had no other choice, not then, but you do have that choice now. Let us help you. Join our family. Let us give you a new life, one where you don’t need to hide from a world which rejects you, which says you don’t_ deserve _to be saved. Come home,”_ he beseeches, as close to pleading as Rook’s heard him yet.

And none of it real. Every word a trap, carefully designed to reel him in and snap shut.

Rook inhales slowly, lets the pressure rest in his chest before he releases it, just as slow. His voice is calm when he speaks, empty and flat. “Joseph. If I wanted a family, I wouldn’t have killed what remained of mine.”

He ends the call. That’s enough talking to crazy cult leaders for one day.

* * *

But yeah. Them capture teams, huh? Determined bastards.

Doesn’t matter how many he kills, more keep getting sent after him, happy to throw themselves into the flames for their beloved herald. Rook gets another few days, keeps silent on the radios and ignores any further calls, and leaves a bloody trail through Holland Valley. Even the Resistance start giving him unnerved looks when he strolls into town covered in gore, so he gets used to washing in streams or abandoned houses that still have running water.

He’s in one of the latter when the cultists find him.

In the end it’s a Bliss bullet that gets him, a-fucking-gain. It must be a lighter dose because when he opens his eyes, there’s only a few dimming sparks at the edges of his vision, and the world barely wavers.

So he gets to properly appreciate the sight of a dimly lit torture chamber. It’s laid out pretty simply as torture chambers go. A table next to him with a lamp and a metal bowl, a wooden rack over to the right. No blood splashed on the floor and furniture, or any other gore, so at least it might be sanitary. Infections are the absolute worst.

He’s restrained, rope bindings tight around his arms, waist and ankles. Decent enough that he won’t be getting out easy, no slack to move against or places where the rope is thinner, easier to snap. The chair isn’t secured to the floor, though - it’s a swivel chair with wheels on the bottom. Seems like an oversight on the behalf of whoever’s kidnapped him.

Muffled screams reach his ears, some distant and others much closer.

Oh, hey. That’s Hudson, tied up like he is across the room from him. She looks worse off than when he last saw her, more bruises and scrapes on her skin, and dark bags under her eyes. Lost some weight too, cheeks gaunt and skin ashen, a gag muffling her screams. Still in her uniform, though, hardly even a tear in material that looks recently washed. For someone kidnapped by a sadist, she’s looking good. Limbs all accounted for and everything.

Said sadist decides it’s time to saunter over, whistling without a care in the world as he sets a toolbox down on- oh, huh, the rack has skin stapled to it. And, hm. Those blurred shapes now look a bit more like bodies hanging from the ceiling, and there’s a bit more blood than he initially realised, the coppery scent strong in the room.

He can cross off ‘sanitary’ then.

Hudson has gone still the second John walked in, and he can hear a muffled, fearful groan from her before John begins to speak. The Power of Yes, his parents, a story Rook already knows from Joseph’s tell-all book.

But it’s interesting to hear it straight from John. To see how lightly, almost _gratefully,_ he speaks of monsters who tortured a child. Oh, he’s plenty harsh in places - slamming the nail gun down on the table with that final snarled _“pain”,_ voice raised and words fast-paced and frenzied - but it’s for show. All of it is.

So Rook just listens. Doesn’t react to John prepping the tattoo gun, to him ripping open Rook’s shirt and wiping down his skin, even as a soft mania creeps into John’s voice, a desperate eagerness. This means so much to him, and it’s almost painful to witness. Honest and raw, an open wound John’s given up on hiding or thinking will ever heal, choosing to wield it like a weapon instead.

He waits until John is done. Until he’s leaning against the table, screwdriver in hand and an attempt at a casual pose that still looks like it’s trying too hard. “So. Who wants to go first? Hm?”

“Maybe I should’ve been clearer before,” Rook muses, head tilted just a little. There’s a quiet thrill in the way John’s focus narrows in on him, anticipation palpable. They’ve spoken over the radio and there was the stint at the river, but there’s something…so much _more_ in being able to see John’s reactions. It clears the lingering influence of Bliss and makes his smile that bit sharper. “If you want my confession, you have to earn it first.”

“Earn it?” Irritation flashes across John’s face. But he decides to play along, raising his eyebrows indulgently. “Then tell me. What would it _take,_ to earn the Deputy’s confession?” Derisive, but there’s still that edge of _want._

“You Seeds are real pushy, you know that?” He’s only interacted with two of them so far, but he doubts Jacob and Faith are all that much better. “Ever heard of catching more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“I have _tried that.”_ John slams the screwdriver down into the table, rattling the frame and making Hudson flinch hard. “I have tried talking, and asking, I have said everything I could possibly think of to get you to _see.”_ He takes a steadying breath. “But it’s clear to me now. Someone like you, with Wrath like yours - you would never choose to come willingly. So, I’m not giving you that choice anymore.”

_You had no other choice, not then, but you do have that choice now,_ Joseph had said, and the contrast makes Rook bite back a laugh. These guys need to get their stories straight.

“There’s a problem with all that, John.”

“Oh? What is it _now?”_

Rook smiles, easy and slow and without a hint of trepidation, for all that John’s done his best to put on quite the show. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

John straightens triumphantly, jabbing a finger at him as he stalks in close. “But I do. Michael Rook, age thirty-two, born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. Hasn’t been all that long since you graduated, has it? Came straight to Hope County after that - top of your class, very impressive.”

Damn it, Amanda, he told her top fifteen, not the very top. She probably just wanted to see him squirm when he downplays his skills and people get suspicious about his grades. That’s how he ends up with people thinking he slept with his professors.

“And before all that…” John hums thoughtfully, and Rook wonders if he’s got some file on him memorised. Kind of creepy - and flattering, not gonna lie - but Rook would do the same thing in his position. “A lot of menial jobs - you weren’t very good at holding onto those, were you? Barely lasted six months at most. In fact, the only job you _did_ keep for long was as a trainee park ranger.”

There’s an odd gleam in his eyes as he leans in, fingers closing around Rook’s forearms. He’s got a strong grip, and the dim orange lights of the room can’t quite hide just how bright the blue of his eyes are. “What was it about that one? The freedom? The lack of people?”

“The silence _was_ pretty nice.”

Rook was never a park ranger, but a year of wilderness training shared enough similarities for him to add the sort of, _kind of_ equivalent in to his background, figuring it was a good point for someone applying to be a Junior Deputy in rural Montana. It wasn’t ever silent out there, not really, but the only human communication he got were clipped instructions and a hard shove if he was too slow to get moving.

Once he was done with that training he spent weeks in New Orleans, spending every second around people and drinking in the sheer sensation of _life_ he’d missed in that year. It’d also lead to one of his worst sessions of binge drinking, and a headache he still recalls the pain of today.

“You didn’t miss your family?” John smiles, a mean edge to it. Suits him just as well as the tailored clothes do, and the expensive aftershave that’s impossible to miss at this distance. “They’re still back in Ohio, aren’t they? Your father was in law enforcement - was he your inspiration? A few years late, but you got there in the end. You’ll have to tell me what he was like before that mugger shot him. A very impressive man, I’m sure.”

Rook buries a bubble of laughter, body trembling faintly with it. By the sharpening of John’s expression, he thinks it’s an entirely different emotion.

“And your poor mother, left all alone to raise two teenagers. Scott still lives near your childhood home, did you know? I can only assume it’s so he can look after your ageing mother. But you…You couldn’t wait to get away, could you? Left the moment you graduated high school, hopping from city to city, never settling for long. Just what were you searching for?”

His voice loses a little of those sharp, cutting edges, almost gentle now. Warm eyes watching Rook closely, avid in their focus. “Have you considered you may have found it?”

It isn’t a bad attempt.

Bringing up details of ‘his’ life with an overly personal familiarity, mentioning his family with that hint of threat to make him wonder whether the cult would send people after them in retaliation, to remind him that even though he’s cut off from the outside world, Eden’s Gate are the ones maintaining that chokehold. Poking at a sore spot common enough for it to get to plenty of people, that need for purpose and the fruitless years spent searching for one. A spot Joseph likely told him about.

“Hey, John?” He keeps the volume barely above a murmur, forces John to sway in further, his fingernails pressing hard into Rook’s skin. “I’ll give you one confession for free. Just for you.”

“Tell me,” John says, _demands,_ and Rook’s soft huff of laughter is genuine. It makes his next words more fun.

“Michael Rook is a lie.”

John’s eyebrows pull together in confusion, and the shift to frustration is quick. “What does that mean?”

“You telling me you’re not smart enough to figure it out?”

Offence draws John’s mouth into a snarl, and Rook is sure he’s about to be punched - when John stills, those pretty blue eyes of his open wide. “It isn’t real,” he breathes. _“That’s_ why it didn’t add up. None of it is real.”

Rook smiles proudly. It isn’t even completely fake - good on John for holding back that violent first impulse, and actually putting that brain of his to use. Rook’s aware that he was never going to pretend at being an ordinary guy for long, not if he wants to really enjoy this, so there’s enough evidence to hint at being more than what he is on paper.

“So, who _are_ you?”

There’s honest intrigue in John’s voice, thoughts of confession and sin forgotten for just a moment in the face of the shiny new mystery dropped in his lap. Oh, Rook is sure that torture is still on the table, but John is distracted now. Thrown off by something he didn’t expect. It’s nice to know he can still be unpredictable.

Rather than answering, Rook pointedly looks past John to where Hudson is tied up across the room. Since John decided personal space was a thing for other people, she wouldn’t have been able to hear much of the conversation. Rook had spoken quietly enough to make sure his side of things was impossible for her to catch, at least.

Hey, his identity may be held together by duct tape and a few half-hearted prayers at this point, but he owes Amanda a little effort for all her hard work. The Seeds are probably gonna rip what’s left of it to shreds, so he’ll just focus on keeping the Resistance in the dark. Not that he thinks they’d care at this point as long as he fights for them.

To his credit, John picks up on the obvious glance. “Of course. Confessions are meant to be- private, after all.” He straightens, a satisfied smirk on his face. “You and I have a lot to talk about, Deputy. I wouldn’t want any distractions to that. Just wait right here, I won’t be long.”

He wheels a struggling Hudson out of the room, her screams muffled by the the tape over her mouth, and Rook is left alone. He eyes one of the flaps of skin stapled to the wooden rack, making out the carved letters of _Greed._

That went surprisingly well. He isn’t usually so successful at talking himself out of being tortured. Then again, his torturers aren’t usually so _invested_ in it all. Makes a guy feel real special.

But if John’s people hurt his dog he’s gonna be pissed off, he decides as he shuffles the chair over to the toolbox. After the last kidnapping, he found out that Boomer ran back to Fall’s End and barked up a storm in front of the Spread Eagle, and it hadn’t taken long after that for Jerome and Mary May to figure out what his literal radio silence meant. So he’s hoping Boomer will just head back there again.

This time, he shouldn’t be needing that rescue.

A hard shove against the table knocks the tool box on its side, an assortment of knives, pliers, and general make-shift torture implements tumbling out. The serrated knife is the one he’s interested in.

It isn’t easy or in any way comfortable to get his weight resting on his feet rather than the chair, but it gives him the height needed for his right hand to get a fumbling grip on the knife.

He’s got it at a weird angle, blade pointing at the soft flesh of his wrist when he starts sawing through the ropes in jerky motions. But it does the job, and it takes far less time to cut through the rest of his bonds. Then he’s on his way out with the knife still in hand, rolling his shoulders to rid them of some stiffness.

Doesn’t take long to figure out he’s in John’s bunker. It’s interesting to be able to check out one of these. He’s been wondering how prepared they are for the long haul, whether they’ve taken all the logistics into account, and while he’s only on the upper levels he can see they’ve already got a lot of supplies stocked up.

How far away is this prophesied end of theirs, anyway? Isn’t like Joseph has sent out any ‘Save the Date’ cards. He’ll have to ask next time he chats with Joseph.

He doesn’t try too hard to avoid detection. There’s less places to stash bodies anyway, and these guys are better trained, so when people stop answering their radios the alarm quickly goes up. Rook picks up a mishmash of weaponry from the cultists he kills, pleased to find that these guys have been taking pretty good care of them, even if he ends up favouring a baseball bat to channel his annoyance at getting drugged again on some willing targets.

Is now the time to rescue Hudson? Hey, he _has_ been thinking about it, thank you very much. He’s gonna get them all back eventually. It does feel like one of those pivotal points, a bleak period in the story where the hero’s fight against the evil cult seems futile. About the time for a little victory, maybe?

Yeah, not today. When he finally catches up, Hudson and John are on the other side of a sealed door. He could try rigging it with explosives. But the door looks like it could withstand anything except, well, _all_ his explosives at once - and that’d risk bringing the ceiling down on them. Bit counterintuitive.

“I told you to wait,” John snaps through the intercom.

There’s a button on this side too, so Rook obligingly answers. “I got impatient. You didn’t expect me to wait all day for you, did you?”

“It was barely ten minutes before you started killing my people!”

“Excuse me. Five, at most.”

John glowers at him, looking like he really wants to get his hands around Rook’s throat. It’s a good look on him. Really highlights his cheekbones. “This Wrath of yours is dangerous, Deputy. It will consume you until you are hollow and empty, destroyed by the rage you refuse to confront and set aside. You can’t keep rejecting our help, _my_ help, and expect any other outcome.”

“I don’t think I’m a particularly wrathful person,” Rook disagrees, stepping closer to the door. Behind John he can see Hudson, shaking her head and begging him to run with her eyes alone. Sweet of her. “I’m not angry, when I kill your people. Not usually. I don’t tend to feel much at all, if I’m being honest.” He smiles, sharp and cutting, and taps slowly against the thick glass separating them. “Apart from after the river. I was very angry at you then, John.”

“Why?” John asks like he doesn’t mean to, the question pulled from him. There it is, a curiosity John’s own wrath can’t dampen one bit.

Another confession, just for him. “I don’t like Bliss. If you use it on me again, _make_ me that again-” He feels cold when he looks at John. Cold and empty and flat, and in that state it’s the easiest thing in the world to let go. To drop his people mask, to drop Rook, cutting himself down to the only thing he needs to be to survive. “I’ll kill you.” He says it simply, a promise rather than a threat. It isn’t intended to be one. Just…fair warning, he supposes.

“I like you,” he offers, drawing back from where he’s leaned in close. On the other side, John’s breath has misted up the glass where he’s leaned in too. It has Rook’s smile smoothing into something warmer. “Don’t make me kill you, okay?”

With no way to get through the bunker doors, he leaves it there and heads up the nearby flight of stairs. There are more cultists to fight through on his way out, but less than he expected. Maybe John pulled his men back to stop them all getting slaughtered in one go. Can’t be easy to replace the ones who have decent training and experience, and Eden’s Gate only has so many warm bodies to throw at him.

John is unusually quiet over the radio. Rook waits for at least some taunting, considering Rook was within a metre of Hudson yet couldn’t get her back. But there’s nothing.

It’s just as well, really. A day for himself gives him chance to cool down from the abrupt surges of rage whenever he thinks about having more of that Bliss crap in his system again. This time it hadn’t made him some pliant doll, but it still knocked him out for hours, left him helpless and weak. If he heard John’s voice in one of those moments - he can’t say he’d keep such a close check on his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so it's been a while? xD You can blame Zetsuna for this, she's responsible for getting me posting these chapters again.
> 
> And yes I named the fic after a random bit of poetry Rook quotes to be annoying, fic titles are hard. The poem in question is A Song on the End of the World by Czeslaw Milosz.


	6. Chapter 6

His mood clears up on the day Denise’s airdrop arrives.

He makes his way down to the diner early in the morning, humming along to one of those catchy religious songs the cult likes to broadcast. Did they pay someone to sing these? Or are they hiding some genuine talent among their ranks? They must have a lot of non-combatants, people who take care of all the farms they bought up, who maintain their equipment, coordinate everything, and do all the odd jobs that keep the cult running smoothly. Well, as smooth as they can manage with him fucking things up for them.

His head tilts in consideration as he parks up. While he likes to think he’s quite the spanner in the works, he _has_ only been focusing on Holland Valley. The other two regions - Faith’s and Jacob’s - he hasn’t even touched. For strategic reasons at first, but by now the Resistance has a solid foothold here and shouldn’t crumble to pieces the second he leaves.

So, where to next?

He looks over at the broken windows of the diner, seeing a few overturned chairs and a register that’s been left open. Pratt’s up north, isn’t he? Can’t imagine that Jacob is good company. He’ll probably be the most challenging to deal with. He’s got the training and experience to give him an edge, and then there’s those Judges of his. Rook doesn’t really want to shoot wolves, so that’s gonna suck.

Meanwhile, Faith has Bliss turning the Henbane into an addict’s Wonderland. Just what he needs. If he had a choice he’d stay far away from the region, maybe bomb it from the air to take care of the issue entirely.

But - and there’s always a fucking ‘but’ - the Sheriff is there. Escaped Faith’s tender care and got himself set up with a Resistance of his own, from what Dutch said a few days ago. They’ve been having issues lately, hounded on all sides by cultists and forced to retreat to the relative safety of the county jail. Relative, because yesterday he got word that they’re under siege and barely holding out. Not so subtly, Dutch had ‘suggested’ he go help them.

It could be a good idea. He wants to find out if Whitehorse has figured out any sort of plan to handle this. If he’s looking to call in outside help, Rook needs to know about it. As good as he is, even he doesn’t fancy his chances if the government gets interested in what’s going down in Hope County.

So. The Henbane it is.

“I’m gonna regret this,” he informs a napping Boomer curled up on the passenger seat. “I fucking know it.”

Denise picked a day with heavy cloud cover for the drop, so Rook doesn’t see the package until it’s drifting down towards him. Rook already checked the area out so he isn’t worried about cultists coming out in force, but he’s quick about loading it up onto the truck. The crate isn’t huge, just above knee height and a metre or so wide, but when he lifts it he grunts with the strain.

“How much crap did you pack in this?” he gripes, rolling his shoulders and getting the truck going. He isn’t sticking around to see if anyone saw the crate fall - doesn’t help that Denise chose a neon pink parachute for the thing, the brat - and he’s already got a spot planned for keeping any equipment he won’t be carrying on him.

Up to the north end of Holland Valley, across the river from Dutch’s island, is one of the prepper stashes he rooted through in the early days. It’s out in the woods, near indistinguishable from the tree roots winding around the entrance unless you’re looking closely enough - or trip over it and nearly brain yourself on the metal door.

Which he definitely didn’t do.

Anyway, he’s covered it up a bit better and checked whether anyone around knows about it. The Resistance are happy to tell him about any spots they know of and this one hasn’t come up. Neither has an owner so he figures they’re probably dead, making it a decent place to store his stuff in.

Lugging the crate down the metal stairs is a fun experience. He nearly loses his balance when Boomer decides that this is a great moment to run down after him, knocking against his leg and resulting in a panic-fuelled moment where he’s absolutely _certain_ he’s gonna keep tipping forward.

He doesn’t, but just barely. His pounding heart has finally calmed down by the time he picks up a crowbar and gets the crate open.

“Denise, you’re the fucking _best.”_

Guns, good ones that pack a punch and won’t jam on him in the midst of a firefight. More knives than he could’ve hoped for, new and sharp and shiny enough that he can see his reflection in the ones that aren’t a matt black. Enough tightly packed explosives to demolish half the buildings in Hope County, matched only by the sheer amount of ammunition filling the crate.

And most importantly, he admits grudgingly, some decent protection that fits him properly. He’s felt naked without the ballistic cloth and dense plating he favours in heavy combat scenarios, sparing enough for easy movement whilst ensuring that if he gets shot, it’ll only leave bruises. The arm and shin guards can even go under his clothes, though he settles for having the chest plating over a shirt, and an open, red and black checkered button-up on top.

There’s spares of everything, which’ll be handy if something breaks or he gets kidnapped again. Kind of embarrassing that it’s happened twice now - three times if he counts Dutch - but he’s come out relatively unscathed every time. Can’t complain too much.

He beams at the sight of his favourite gloves, settled on top of a pile of clothes. The material is worn from years of use, with several obvious stitches and mismatched material where he’s had to patch them up, but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to get new ones.

He doesn’t get all that attached to things, always aware that he’ll have to dispose of his weapons to get rid of the evidence, and moving around too often to keep many possessions on him. But these gloves have stuck with him, and it settles a quiet unease he wasn’t even aware of until he has them on again. In the rush of the move to Hope County he left them behind at the California house, and had planned on visiting soon so he could pick them up. Obviously, recent events got in the way of that.

He gets his phone out and shoots off a quick text to Denise, leaving the stash first and getting some distance just in case the Seeds try using this to track him.

_You want me to strip for your bday again, I’ll do it. Even wear the uniform_

The reply comes within seconds. _YES!! Deputy sexy ys please, come take me away, Ive been a bad bad girl_

_I’ll need new handcuffs tho_

_where’s yours??_

_Joseph Seed still has them I think_

The phone starts buzzing in his hand with an incoming call. He picks up tentatively.

_“Why does Joseph Seed have your handcuffs?!”_ Denise shrieks in his ear.

He flinches back. “Ow.”

_“That isn’t an answer!”_

“I told you I was being sent off to arrest a cult leader, didn’t I?”

_“Yeah, statue guy.”_

“Well, that’s what kicked this off. Arrested him in his church-”

There’s a dramatic gasp. _“Blasphemous!”_

“-and then one of his followers brought the helicopter crashing down.”

_“Of course there was a helicopter crash. Why is it always helicopter crashes with you?”_

He gets into the truck, frowning in offence as he starts the engine up. “I didn’t do anything!”

She scoffs. _“Please. Like you wouldn’t have ramped a motorbike into it if you could’ve.”_

“One time, Denise. You can’t keep holding that against me.”

_“I was in! The helicopter!”_

“And I grabbed you on the way out, didn’t I? Not even a scratch on you.”

She makes an aggravated noise. _“You’re lucky you have such a nice ass, Rook. I’d never put up with your shit otherwise.”_

“I thought you liked me for my smile.” He draws his voice low with sadness, makes sure she can hear the pout over the phone. Lower still, that rough tone she calls his ‘been fucked or done fucked’ voice. “Or is it my thighs lately? I’ve been working on them, just for you.”

_“Well it sure as shit ain’t your personality.”_ The slight waver makes him grin. They’ve never had sex - Denise too certain that he’d ruin her for any other man, which is flattering as hell - but if Denise gets to enthusiastically declare her appreciation in the middle of jobs, then he gets to tease right back.

_“I went by your house.”_

He stills. Right, explains how she got the gloves, and it shows how distracted he is that he didn’t pick up on something so obvious. She usually avoids the States, preferring Europe, and he thought she was doing a job. “Oh?”

_“Yeah. A told me, you know. They’ve started digging.”_

A for Amanda. She always makes them use just an initial over the phone, a habit they adopt even without her there to catch them. “Yeah, I figured. Kinda gave the game away.”

_“Wouldn’t have held for long anyway. Bit of a rush job, wasn’t it?”_ He tries to picture her in the California house. She hates the sun, so it must’ve been a short visit. _“Haven’t seen you so eager for anything in a while. It’s good.”_

“Look how it turned out.”

_“I know.”_ He can hear her grin, wide and catlike. _“Bet you’re having the time of your life.”_

And the thing is? She’s right. For all that he’s had a shit time with the Bliss, memories brought up which he’d prefer to keep buried, he’s still having fun. This level of gruelling, never ending combat is something he hasn’t experienced in years. The cultists aren’t that skilled but there’s a lot of them, and once he heads into the other regions it should get more challenging, too.

He feels like he’s actually living again, rather than breezing from one job to the next.

“A isn’t too mad, is she?” Not a subtle change in topic, but Denise doesn’t call him out on it.

_“She’ll probably skin you next time she sees you, so no worse than usual.”_

“I should be safe. She’s filled her stabbing quota for the year.”

Denise laughs. _“Is that where that injury came from? I_ knew _it was too clean. Let me guess, you got Oliver to patch you up afterwards. The man’s carrying a torch for you, Rook. Put him out of his misery already.”_

He rolls his eyes, turning the truck towards the road leading into Henbane. There’s banners up on the bridge, more of John’s _Just Say Yes_ bullshit. “He’s never made a pass at me, you know that.”

_“’Course I do. I’d flay you myself if I wasn’t the first one you told.”_ She gives a breathy sigh. _“Now that, is one_ fine _silver fox.”_

He hums in agreement. “Too bad he’s straight.” Got an ex-wife and everything. Despite Denise’s teasing, Oliver’s never shown any interest in him past grouching at Rook about being a reckless idiot who’s gonna get himself killed. Something he’s heard from all his friends, actually. Bit of a common theme.

_“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”_ There’s a pause. _“You sure you got a handle on this? I haven’t been able to get much on the situation; it’s locked down tight. Your boys know people in high places.”_

That explains the lack of anyone come searching after the loss of Burke. A missing U.S. Marshal warrants more of a response than some deputies and a sheriff would on their own, yet there’s been nothing. Road blocks and a lack of communication couldn’t hold up for long if someone important got determined.

Joseph’s book talked a bit about how John is good at getting information - blackmail, really - on people, didn’t it? Might be enough to delay a response for a while longer yet.

“I’m good.”

_“Hope you know what you’re doing.”_ He goes to respond when she continues. _“Don’t lie to me, I know how you get. One of them provoked you, didn’t they? Got your attention, and now you can’t resist fucking with them. How old are you again? Bit past the hair pulling stage, aren’t you?”_

“Depends what they’re into.” The retort slips out without much thought behind it. He knows Denise will latch onto it like a fucking snake, and waits with an amused smile for her response.

She doesn’t disappoint, making an intrigued sound. _“Oh, it’s_ they, _is it? One pretty boy not enough for you?”_

“To be fair, they’re all pretty.”

_“How scandalous!”_ She clears her throat and makes an attempt at a serious, scolding voice. “ _Now Rook, I told you the last time; don’t stick your dick in crazy. Remember Victor?”_

He groans and knocks his head back against the headrest. “Oh, _God.”_

Denise cackles like the witch she is. _“Because_ I _remember Victor. ‘But Denise, his eyes are so_ dreamy _, I could get lost in them for hours.’”_ She puts on an airy, besotted voice. _“‘And he’s so_ dedicated, _hunting me across the world and showing up when I least expect it. I feel bad for getting away every time, but I’ve gotta make him work for it, you know?’”_

“Denise,” he whines.

_“‘Rook, you precious fool, you colossal dumbass,’ I said like the amazing friend I am. ‘He’s obsessed with you, he’s quit his job and gone rogue so he can track you down and make you into his sex slave. Now, I know you’re a dumb slut with no sense of self-preservation, but you don’t want to be a sex slave, Rook. You like holding hands and cuddling too much to be tied up all the time.’ And what happened?”_

“I’m hanging up now.”

_“You can’t silence me! You have terrible taste in men, and the world should know it!”_

He laughs. “Eat shit, Denise.” Tapping on the screen to end the call is nowhere near as satisfying as snapping a flip phone shut, but it does the job just as well.

-

He decides to hold off on announcing that he’s left the region until he gets to the county jail. It gives him a chance to get used to the area before people notice he’s here and start sending teams after him. And boy, it is gonna take some getting used to.

First up, there’s the Bliss. Around here he can’t seem to go five feet without sparkles dancing across his vision, and there’s whole fields of the flowers it’s sourced from. He’s alright as long as he doesn’t get too close, and it doesn’t affect him as much as the first Bliss bullet, but he’s still not a fan of being drugged without his consent. Just being near them gives him a high that has colours flashing along the edges of everything around him and warmth thrumming through his body.

So he stays the fuck inside his truck for most of the journey. He only has to switch vehicles once. Knocking a persistent cult truck off the side of the road and down a steep cliff solved the issue of the guy firing on him, but didn’t fix the bullet holes peppering his own truck. Luckily there was an abandoned car with some dead civilians nearby for him to use.

Next up, once he does get to the jail, he has the dubious pleasure of being introduced to Faith’s ‘Angels’.

He stares for a full five seconds as a woman he just shot in the chest pushes herself back to her feet. Then he shoots her in the head, twice. That keeps her down.

“We’re doing zombies now. Okay. Just great,” he mutters on his way up to the jail, taking out a few more cultists clustered around the building.

Rook is not a fan of zombies. Corpses breaking out of their coffins, rising up out of the dirt- nope, no thank you. At least these ones don’t try taking a bite out of him, surgical masks covering their mouths and favouring shovels or hoes as their weapon of choice. Too braindead to use guns, maybe? Either way, handy for him because the fuckers are strong as it is. No need to arm them further.

When he’s up on the walls, wave after wave of cultists fighting to get in, his gun clicks empty. Spitting out a curse, no ammo in sight, he snatches up a discarded shovel and tries that out for size.

Turns out? Pretty effective.

It does, however, mean he’s covered in blood when Whitehorse catches sight of him in the aftermath.

“Holy shit…Rook?” Whitehorse goes to clasp his shoulder, but thinks better of it. Rook’s not offended. So long as he gets a shower as a reward after this, it’s all good. “That was you with the rocket launcher, huh?” He gives a grim smile. “You really saved our bacon.”

“Happy to help.” Rook wipes some blood off his cheek, nose wrinkling at the tacky feeling.

He follows Whitehorse and watches the way he orders the people here around with confident ease, each of them springing to do what he asks. As a sheriff he’d been- well, he hadn’t given the impression of someone who could withstand a siege, anyway.

But it looks like Whitehorse has shaped up since the church, decided this isn’t a fight he can avoid and instead entrenched himself here. A base for the ‘Cougars’, as they’re calling themselves.

He eyes the pin the - former? - mayor gave him, bemused. Then with a shrug he puts it on. Go team.

“Gonna be honest,” Whitehorse says, eyeing him carefully. There’s relief there, sure, but uncertainty too. Neither are as new as the respect Whitehorse regards him with now. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’ve been in Holland Valley-”

Whitehorse chuckles. “I heard. Making a fine mess of things for the peggies. I don’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t heard by now, John Seed made sure of that.”

Yeah, those broadcasts are about as far from private as you can get. John’s made no attempt to hide his desire to start carving Rook up, a particularly macabre serenade that’s always fun to tune in to. “You’ve been busy here, too.”

“It’s a start.” Whitehorse gets him up to date on what’s been happening in the region. Resistance members taken and pumped so full of Bliss they become Angels, outposts set up just like in Holland Valley, hallucinations hitting anyone who isn’t careful about what they’re breathing in. Makes it difficult to get a foothold, when you can’t trust what you’re seeing is real.

“You seen her yet? Faith Seed.” When Rook shakes his head, Whitehorse continues, “Be careful. Whatever she says, whatever she promises, it’s a lie. Stay away from her, or you’ll end up just like the marshal.”

“She still has him?” Whitehorse got away; out of the two of them, Rook would assume Burke had a better shot at escaping, even with the help Whitehorse got. Supposed to be a trained federal agent, or whatever.

“Got her claws sunk in deep. She can manipulate the Bliss somehow, get in people’s heads.” He sighs. “I won’t pretend to understand it. I just know that if you see her, run in the opposite direction.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He thinks back to the river, how easily he’d been led around without even a thought of fighting back. They hadn’t tried to fuck with his head, not then, but would the Bliss make him more susceptible to it? Force a willingness to listen, to agree and believe in whatever anyone told him?

Shit. Everything he learns about Bliss makes him hate it even more.

“Heard anything from the outside?” Time to get things on track towards the reason he came to the jail. Finding out whether Whitehorse has had any luck in contacting people outside the county, or if he’s planning to do anything in that vein.

Turns out? Nope. He’s got his attention firmly on the Henbane River, and he wants Rook to go out and help with taking back the region.

“I know I signed up for this,” he tells Boomer as they jog down the road, the most recent truck lost to a the outpost he just hit. It’d seemed a good idea at the time to run over as many of the cultists as he could. The truck wasn’t so fond of being rammed into a wall, and he left it smoking ominously with an armoured up cultists wrapped around the front wheels. “But you’d think people would be more hesitant about sending the rookie off on suicide missions.”

Seriously. He’s thought about it before, because yeah, if he was who he says he is - he’d be dead. No question about it. And Whitehorse has got to know that, but he did it anyway. Hell, the man had a look on his face like he knew just what he was asking, but he sure didn’t hesitate. Makes a guy feel real cared for.

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. An unfamiliar number flashes up on the screen, so not one of the contacts on here. Now, who could that be?

_“Deputy.”_

A grin pulls at his mouth and he does nothing to suppress his pleased surprise when he speaks. “Hey there, John.”

_“I just received word of your…excursion into the Henbane. I will be honest, I didn’t take you for a man who would give up so easily. Or are you running scared?”_

John’s voice is oddly even and calm, bereft of that usual undercurrent of anger. Instead there’s…something that might be wariness? Interesting.

“Miss me already? It’s barely been half a day.” He edges towards the tree line, catching sight of a helicopter in the distance. He’s heading deeper into the Henbane, following up on a vet turned doctor that went missing. Seems like an important guy to have around in case someone gets a lucky shot in.

_“I assure you, Deputy, the peace and quiet has been a welcome change. Why, it’s been an entire day and nothing has exploded yet.”_

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

_“How? By stealing another pair of my sunglasses?”_ John sounds genuinely exasperated.

It makes Rook wonder how confusing his actions must be to everyone else. Because yeah, there was absolutely no tactical value to going into John’s house and stealing something like a pair of sunglasses. ‘Because I was felt like it’ isn’t generally an acceptable motivation.

And on top of that, there isn’t a shred of doubt in Rook’s mind that the Seeds have been listening in on his calls to Denise. Whatever impression _those_ are giving the Seeds must be a fun one.

“Nah, this pair is still going strong.” He’s honestly surprised they haven’t been broken yet. He wasn’t wearing them when he got kidnapped, but he has them on now to deal with the relentless sun. The trees offer some shade but are too patchy to provide a constant cover.

His eyes catch on a field of Bliss flowers, and he diverts his course to go the long way around it. “Hey, John. What’s Faith like?” He may as well get an opinion from someone who doesn’t openly hate and fear her. Best way to find the truth is to vary your sources, and while John isn’t what he’d consider trustworthy, lies can still reveal a lot.

_“You want to know about Faith?”_ John sounds surprised to be asked. Suspicious, too, which is fair.

“I figured you’d know her pretty well. She’s your sister, isn’t she?”

_“Not by birth,”_ he responds shortly, close to snappish. Rook waits patiently for him to continue, keeping an eye out for any cultists. _“No doubt you’ve heard all about her from your fellow sinners. What are they calling themselves, again? Cougars, was it?”_

Rook chuckles at the mocking words. “They gave me a pin, it’s great.”

_“A pin.”_

“Yeah, with a little cougar logo on it. Got it attached to my jacket.” He taps the button, wondering if he can get the faction in Fall’s End to come up with a name of their own and symbol. Maybe an eagle, for Mary May’s bar? Or Boomer would make a great mascot, they should use him. “The Project should make some for you guys to wear, it’d be great for morale. You already have those sweatshirts and, y’know, the forehead tattoos.”

_“I’ll have someone look into it,”_ John says, and yeah, that’s definitely begrudging amusement.

“So. You didn’t answer my question.”

John pauses for a long moment. _“Faith is…loyal. She’s given herself wholeheartedly to the Project. She truly believes. She isn’t a threat to you, Deputy,”_ he adds the last part with a strange weight to it. Maybe remembering the bunker.

“I’ve heard that she wasn’t the first Faith.” A fact that had him wondering just why the heck Joseph keeps dubbing new women as his honorary sister. He didn’t strike Rook as _that_ kind of creep.

_“No, she’s simply the latest. Maybe the last.”_ He clears his throat and quickly moves on. _“I’m sure you’ll hear from Faith herself soon enough. If you have questions, all you have to do is ask her.”_

Interesting. Has Joseph given Faith the same directive - threat - he levelled at John? So determined to save him…Maybe Joseph sees him the same way that Rook does. A challenge thrown in his path.

Although in Joseph’s view, perhaps a test set down by God might be more appropriate. A final opportunity to prove the strength of his conviction and show that he and his faithful deserve to survive the coming apocalypse, while the rest of the world burns.

“If I had questions about you, John, would you answer?” Because he’s curious now, what lengths these people will go to in their attempts to catch him. This whole conversation in just another attempt now that John knows threats, talk of sins and repentance, and outright kidnapping don’t work.

_“Yes,”_ John responds quickly, eagerly. _“Just ask.”_

Rook takes his time to think, making his way up a steep incline whilst Boomer runs ahead. “Those parents of yours, the ones who hurt you. They dead?”

There’s no response for a long while. Rook starts to think one won’t come at all.

_“They died years ago.”_

A plane crosses overhead, painted the white he’s quickly come to associate with the cult, and Rook pauses to let it pass. “That’s good.”

People like John’s parents…Yeah, they’re the ones Rook would kill for free. Has killed, in the times he’s come across cases of abusive parents that have too much money and influence for a well-placed tip to do much, or kids who are stuck in situations they can’t escape with the legal kind of help.

He’s careful about it all, takes his time to make them regret what they’ve done and then - when they’re wrecked and bleeding, begging him to let them live - he makes them disappear. Different method every time, and no evidence to trace it to rook.

Better than therapy.

John ignores his comment. _“Now it’s_ my _turn to ask a question. Who is Denise?_ ” He bites the name out, the hostility making Rook laugh.

“C’mon, you aren’t even gonna pretend to not be listening to my calls?”

_“What would be the point when it’s obvious you already know?”_

A shit-eating grin spreads across Rook’s face. “Why so grumpy? Because I called you pretty?”

There’s a strangled noise over the speaker. John controls himself in the next second, doesn’t fly into the rage Rook is half-expecting. _“She must be someone important to you, to be the only person you’ve called. A lover, perhaps?”_

Rook snorts, hard enough that Boomer looks back at him with pricked ears. _“No,_ fuck no. What gave you that impression?”

_“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the flirting, or the offer to strip for her that gave me the idea you might be involved.”_

“I’d strip for any of my friends in a heartbeat,” Rook declares passionately. “I’m willing to make that sacrifice anywhere, anytime.”

_“You-”_ Another cut off noise, and the muffled sound of glass shattering. _“You. Are infuriating. Are you incapable of being serious for even a single minute?”_

“Hey, you’re the one asking me about my stripping career. Can’t imagine Joseph would approve of that line of questioning.”

_“Joseph-”_ John takes a deep breath, audible over the phone. _“Joseph knows that I will not be swayed by your attempts to- to enrage me. This game you’re playing will not work. I know my sins, and I will not allow them to control me.”_ It sounds more like he’s reassuring himself, than telling Rook. And that’s-

God, is it satisfying to know he really is doing such a good job at messing with these guys. They’re so- _fun_ , way more interesting and engaging than he could’ve hoped when he made the decision to stick around. He knew that Joseph was an intriguing guy after the helicopter crash, but he had no idea about John. No clue that this would become so personal and messy, rather than a clear cut series of attacks and losses, the stark line of opposing sides.

Hopefully the last two will be just as fun.

“A game isn’t the same thing as a lie, you know.” He hasn’t really lied all that much lately, it’s weird. Freeing, in a way, especially now he’s stopped even trying to fit in the mold of Michael Rook. He dulled his edges around Whitehorse and the Ryes, and that’s a world away from pretending to be a different person.

_“Everything about you is a lie,”_ John rebukes, his annoyance clear as day at not being able to find anything real on Rook. _“Michael Rook never existed. There’s no photographs in year books, no family members left behind in Ohio, and no one at the academy has ever heard of him.”_

That confirms Denise’s warning that they’d gone digging, breaking their self-imposed isolation just for little old Rook. Placing such value on his past…They really shouldn’t give him all the cards like this. Almost makes him feel bad for them.

“How about this. Since you’ve been so obliging, I’ll give you another freebie.” There’s distant gunshots, and Rook removes his pistol from its holster as he heads towards it. “My real name, the one I go by? It really is Rook. Always has been.”

He ends the call before he can hear John’s response, recognising that he’s getting close to the geothermal park. Time to rescue Dr. Lindsey.


	7. Chapter 7

His first meeting with Faith is a disaster.

The day starts out fine enough. He gets to meet Sharky, a guy with a penchant for setting Angels on fire and walking around without pants, according to the man’s own ramblings.

The smell of burning flesh isn’t the best when mixed with the sickly sweet, burnt sugar scent that Bliss gives off, but Rook has a fun time chasing down Angels while disco music serves to muffle their growls and shrieks. Earns himself another person he can call on if he wants some company in wrecking the cult’s toys, and you can never know when a flamethrower will come in handy.

Adjusting to the terrain has been his main difficulty so far. Compared to Holland Valley’s abundance of open farmland and sloping woods, Henbane is a lot rockier, with hills that lean close to being proper mountains and winding roads, the river cutting off quicker routes and forcing him to find either a boat or a bridge if he wants to get across. And above them all, Joseph’s big damn statue watches over them from on high, visible from almost any part of the Henbane. When, y’know, the trees and hills aren’t in the way.

He gets used to it eventually. Takes to stealing helicopters more often than he has been, now that travelling by foot is a lot tougher and takes way longer. Boomer isn’t a fan of them, but he gets in once Rook plies him with a few dog treats. Truly the best boy.

The outposts are more spaced out and harder to approach than in the valley, so he hits them less rapidly, only taking out two in the few days he’s been here. He at least gets to destroy the shrines dotted around the area, and kill off the Angels wandering around. Creepy fuckers.

So that sunny day, Rook is in a decent mood when he climbs up on one of the platforms scattered about Hope County and sits down for lunch. He stopped by the jail earlier and got ham sandwiches shoved on him by an old lady who didn’t say one word to him, just patted his cheek and walked right off again. And, well. He wasn’t gonna say no to free food.

Tastes pretty decent when he bites into it, his hands as cleaned up as he could manage with a little bottle of hand sanitiser Kim let him have. He misses how clean he felt after using John’s shower. Maybe he’ll have to sneak in again, some time.

Then Boomer yelps, high-pitched and startled, and Rook is on his feet with his rifle up in seconds.

But when he finds Boomer, the dog looks absolutely fine as he chases a squirrel up a nearby tree. In fact, everything seems fine. No distant gunfire and explosions, no smoke rising into the sky, not calls for help through his radio. Peaceful.

He sits back down cautiously, but can’t bring himself to go back to eating. Instead, he climbs down from the platform and starts walking, unable to explain the restlessness settling into his bones. A sharp whistle brings Boomer running. He’ll go somewhere different for lunch. This place doesn’t feel-

He pushes past a tree branch and slides to a stop in front of a huge field of Bliss flowers.

“Shit.” He takes a hasty step back, but he can already feel the effect they’re having on him. His movements get slower, hazy, like he’s pulling his limbs through tar, and it must have been affecting him since he was sat down because he can’t see Boomer anymore, isn’t sure if that even was Boomer after that first yelp.

Hallucinations, auditory and otherwise - did just having the flowers nearby manage to do that? There were no sparkles, not until now, but everything had seemed bright, too bright, hadn’t it? He turns his head and there’s an echo to his vision now, doubles lined in red and green that shimmers, tries to drag his gaze in and make him look a little longer at how the light plays off the white petals.

Shit, he’s got to get out of here now. Boomer will find him, always does, or he’ll go back to the jail and it’ll be fine, he just needs to _move._

Of course, that’s when a bear roars inches from his face.

Rook lurches into a heel-turn, running back the way he came and cursing up a storm. He is not prepared to fight a fucking bear when his fingers are going numb and he can barely run in a straight line. Of course, running this way means running towards the Bliss flowers, so he tries to angle off and edge around.

But every time he does that the bear is suddenly right fucking there, up close and personal with swiping claws and hundreds of pounds of angry muscle, and his guns just- aren’t there, now? Not on his hip or his back, he’s still got his knife but he can barely feel it, not like he can feel the Bliss flowers brushing against his waist and that sweet scent filling his nose and-

“Welcome to the Bliss,” someone says, airy and light, and Rook drops.

He hits the ground, or maybe he doesn’t, because the next thing he knows he’s on his feet again in an endless field, mist curling through the air and winding down his arms. It parts around a young woman who walks up to him in gliding steps, honey-brown hair fluttering in a breeze he can’t feel.

She’s watching him, green eyes soft and gentle as she reaches out to take his hand. He lets her, feels the light pressure where her fingers trail over his gloved palm, tracing the hidden life line underneath.

“It’s good to finally meet you.” Her words echo, a subtle hum that has him wanting to lean in to hear more. He doesn’t, though. The Bliss - this is what this is, he can feel that even though the warm haze and soft, cajoling voice telling him to relax, to be free here, without worry or pain. It’s both stronger and weaker than the dose that made him compliant and confused. More tempting.

“Faith,” he acknowledges. His tongue doesn’t lay heavy in his mouth like it did before. Instead, it’s too easy to speak, as if he doesn’t need to do anymore more than think the words for them to already be spoken.

“You’ve been asking about me.” She sounds pleased by it, and she grasps his other hand to pull him forwards. He tips in like he can’t help it, slow steps he doesn’t think he can stop. “Let me tell you a story. A true story.”

_Not a threat,_ he thinks as she draws him down into the grass, smiles so sadly and tells her story. Tells him of bullying and abuse and addiction. Of being alone, and wanting nothing more than to die.

And there’s a quiet ache in his chest, a pinprick pressure in his arm when he listens. It fades when she brightens up, talks about the Father and how he saved her, gave her hope and light. Family and acceptance, and purpose. Tells him about faith, and a test.

The concrete book feels solid and real under his feet, and Faith watches him expectantly. He can see it, the long drop, can feel cool air against his face and the weightlessness of falling without a parachute, without a hope of catching onto anything in time.

And he closes his eyes to it. “When I was fourteen, I overdosed for the first time.”

He can’t see Faith’s reaction, doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to say the words at all. But he’s going to, can feel them tumbling from his lips in a helpless surge. “My mom was an addict. Heroin was- it got her through the day. She had chronic pain and it helped, was the only thing that helped. That’s what she said, when she made me fetch it for her because she couldn’t hold the needle. And I- after she died, I wanted to feel close to her again. To have something of her. So.”

He swallows, wets his dry lips. The Bliss tears the words from him, forces them to keep going now he’s started. Makes him weak and open and _vulnerable._

“So. I stole some money, went to one of her old dealers, and bought as much as I could. Been a few years but I- I still remember how. Not something you forget, is it? And it was…I felt okay, for the first time in forever. Like maybe the world wasn’t as terrible as I thought. I felt close to her, ‘cause that must be how she felt, and I understood now. Why she did it. Why she couldn’t live without it.”

He laughs. It vibrates strangely in his throat, humourless but the Bliss won’t let it be harsh, dulling the worst of the old grief and pain struggling to rise in his chest. “Wasn’t the last time. Didn’t take long before I felt as if I needed it all the time, and if I didn’t have it, I couldn’t be happy. And I wasn’t even wrong, I _wasn’t_ happy, everything was fucking horrible and I wanted to-” Chokes back the words, not that much, not that far, _please._

“I was stupid. Took too much, from some dealer I didn’t know because I couldn’t find the usual guy and I was getting desperate. I’m lucky,” he says wryly. “Real lucky that a lady was walking by when I overdosed on a fucking park bench in the middle of the night, in _December_. She should’ve left me there to die, but she didn’t. Got me to a hospital, and they would’ve turned me away if I didn’t have a library card on me. If I wasn’t a Walker.” He huffs softly. “Saved by a compassionate bystander and a library card.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He opens his eyes. Still on the top of Joseph’s statue, but the open book wavers under his feet, a constant state of crumbling and reforming. Faith is watching him so carefully, all those fluttering butterflies gone away. There’s a minute tremble to the hands at her side, and this time he’s the one who reaches out, only closing his fingers around them when she doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know.” He smiles and it feels off, too light for the weight pressing down on his ribs. “I feel like you Seeds keep sharing your past with me, and I’m giving nothing back. Doesn’t seem fair.”

She looks so young and small. It makes it harder to remember she’s a grown woman, dangerous in her own right, and far from the innocence she wears like a shield. He thinks of other girls like her, girls with big eyes and shallow smiles and quiet pain in every breath. The ones who were kind to him, and he’d known it was just because of what they could use him for, but it was the only kindness he knew for years and it’d meant- everything.

“I’m not a liar,” she tells him firmly, just a little desperately. He wonders if it bothers her to be known as one now, to be called a cruel manipulator, a siren. “I give people happiness and peace. Happiness you can experience again, without that poison this time. I can give you that.” She pulls gently on his hands, guiding him towards the edge. “You just have to take the leap. Accept the Word of the Father into your heart.”

“I can’t,” Rook says, buries the regret that tries to seep into his voice. Acceptance and happiness, huh? If only.

“Why?” She holds tighter, eyebrows pulling together and mouth twisting into a sad frown. “Why do you reject us, reject _him?_ You’re not one of them. You could join us and become one of the chosen few, one of our family. Do you think we wouldn’t accept you, no matter your past?”

“I think your offer is genuine.” It hasn’t ever felt like a lie. Just a trap, and it still is. Not even the Bliss can convince him otherwise. “Maybe you wouldn’t even mind what I’ve done.”

“Then what is it? Why hesitate?”

“Because you’re offering me something that won’t ever happen.” He steps back, loosens her hold and focuses on her, just her, the only thing here that isn’t the Bliss. “They’re just pretty words designed to break me, and it’s cruel.” He laughs again, harsh enough that she flinches. “I know we’re enemies, but it’s- it’s a really cruel way to play with someone.”

“It isn’t just words!” she insists, and the world shivers with the strength of her voice. “It’s _real._ The Father wants you to join us, nothing he’s said to you has been a lie.”

“He wants what he can use, what he can control,” Rook states flatly. “I can’t be one of his faithful. That kind of obedience…You can drug me all you want, but you’ll never have anything that’s real.”

“That isn’t what he wants, you’re not listening.” Her fingers brush against his arms, feather light, _not a threat_ John told him, and maybe that was a lie too. “He wants you in our _family._ He wants you to walk beside us as an equal, as a brother, never as a follower or with forced obedience.”

“Tell me.” He leans down, just the slightest edge of warning creeping into his tone. His head feels clearer now with the anger flooding cold through his veins. The misted view wavers slightly, a flicker of instability in Faith’s perfect control. “If I’d never stood against him, never started to fight your cult and burn your operations to the ground…Would he have even looked at me?”

He smiles at her, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and strides around her to the very edge of the open book. Feels the Bliss tugging at him, warm and inviting, and firmly tells it to _fuck off._

(Hates that part of him wants to stay. Wants to listen to Faith talk about family, wants it to be real. And it’s that want which makes it easier to see that he needs to get away.)

“Because let’s be real. You lot wouldn’t be half so interested in me if I wasn’t such a pain in your ass.”

Then he leaps like Faith wanted him to all along.

* * *

He wakes up to shattered corpses on every side and so, _so_ much regret.

Rolling onto his back, Rook buries a heartfelt groan against his hand and slams a fist down onto the rock below him. The impact hurts, jarring his wrist and sending a spike of pain up his arm, so he does it again and again, until his knuckles are slick with blood and pain radiates through his hand. The fog weighing down his mind lingers, heavy and smothering, but there’s less of it now. Burned away by sharp, _real_ pain.

What the ever-loving _fuck_ was that? Telling Faith Seed all about his fucked up history, his little junkie sob story, just because he heard hers first? Were they swapping stories in an AA meeting or some shit?

No, these assholes want to manipulate and use him and he just handed them another fucking weapon for their arsenal. He gave them that piece of himself - because of course Faith will run off and tell Joseph everything he said, and then John and Jacob for good measure - and he’s never gonna get that back.

He gave them something real, something that matters, and none of them have done shit to earn it.

The rage is familiar, and this time every bit of it is directed at himself. He’s an idiot. A stupid, short-sighted idiot who’s pathetic enough to be affected by this fairytale idea of an accepting family they’ve cooked up. It isn’t real, he knows that, so he should get used to this particular tactic. He isn’t that stupid kid anymore who doesn’t know any better. No excuses.

It’s several hours later when the phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he’s making his way back to the jail (gradually, because it’s kind of hard to tell which way he’s going when the ground keeps spinning away from him). He figures it’s where Boomer will have ended up. How he got to the base of Joseph’s statue he doesn’t know, though he doubts he actually leapt off the damn thing; he’d be just a dead as those other poor suckers Faith must’ve sent up there for shits and giggles. She manipulated the hallucination somehow, ramped it up to eleven, and _God,_ Rook hates Bliss.

He checks the phone in case it’s Denise. It isn’t. Joseph’s name lights up the screen, and Rook has to fight the urge to throw the phone at a tree.

He doesn’t, because Rook has excellent self control. Instead, he puts the phone away and ignores it. Joseph rings several times more until he finally gives up, the phone going still.

Then, his radio crackles to life.

_“Deputy Rook.”_ The bastard has the gall to sound chiding, as if Rook is a misbehaving child. _“Is there a reason you refuse to answer?”_

Oh, we’re telling everyone now that Rook is fielding calls from the Seeds? The thought of the Resistance’s faces if they knew about these little chats actually startles a snort from him, a momentary break in his foul mood.

It doesn’t last long, because his vision is still fucking shimmering at the edges, a constant reminder of what Faith did to him - and what he said to her. So his voice is harsh when he unclips the radio from his belt and brings it to his mouth. “What do you want, Seed?”

There’s a brief pause. _“The last time we spoke, you called me Joseph.”_

“Well, that was then. This is now. Get with the times, old man.” He bites down on the too-fast pace of his words, the jittery tapping of his fingers against his thigh. _One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four._ “Look, I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling. Try some other poor bastard with too much free time on his hands. Pro tip, you’ll have better luck if you lobotomise him first, make him more likely to believe the shit you lot keep spewing.”

_“Rook, are you alright?”_

A hysterical laugh rips out of him. “Alright? ‘Course I’m alright, I’m always alright. Why’s that even a question?”

Oh boy, hello there heart, how ‘bout you settle down, this isn’t a good place to try jumping out of his chest. At least wait until there’s a vet nearby to stick a thermometer up his ass.

He stumbles, foot catching on a root he didn’t notice, and he’s too fucked up to catch himself before he hits the ground. “Fuck,” he hisses, then he laughs because _shit_ , this is just pathetic. The Bliss is still messing with him, blotting out the dirt with a kaleidescope of colour like the world’s worst migraine. It isn’t much better when he shoves himself onto his back.

The lack of static confuses him when he can bring himself to listen for it. He tilts his head to the side, and oh. That’s a lot of pieces. It’s gonna take more than duct tape to fix poor Ol’ Reliable.

He gets a few seconds to breathe, just luxuriating in how fucked up everything is, when the phone starts buzzing anew. He ignores the first few rings, just stares up at the glimpse of blue sky he can see through the canopy. Past the flashing strobe lights, anyway. Fuck, this might be turning into an _actual_ migraine. Just what he needs.

The phone keeps vibrating away relentlessly. Eventually, he sighs and picks up. “What do you want, Joseph?” he asks tiredly. Burned through of all that anger (panic), and there’s nothing much left.

_“I wanted to apologise to you.”_

This ought to be good. “Oh?”

_“John mentioned the way you feel about Bliss.”_ Of course he fucking did. _“Your dislike for it. If I had known your history, I would have cautioned Faith to use it sparingly. Bliss is meant only to help people, to ease their suffering, but I understand why you would be wary of it. I am sorry for the pain it inadvertently caused you.”_

Rook watches how the wind makes the leaves sway, gaze catching on the flickers of light bursting across his vision. They shift every time he focuses too long. “That’s nice.”

_“There was never any intention to harm you. Faith only wished to talk to you. She hopes you’ll be willing to speak with her again, in the future. The two of you have a shared pain few could understand, fewer still could survive, and I believe you can help each other.”_

Well. There went any shred of hope that Faith might have kept it to herself. Not that the possibility was in any way likely, but it would’ve been a nice surprise. “Okay.”

The quiet lingers. Rook takes a deep breath, feels it settle in his lungs. Clean air, nothing like the city he grew up in. He’s about as far away from that cold park bench as can be.

So why can he feel the wooden boards under his body, the ice creeping through his veins and turning each exhale into clouds of smoke? The distant sounds of car horns and slamming doors make him flinch, and it’s getting colder still, numbing his fingers and lips until he can barely feel them.

He closes his eyes, and that just makes the dark night sky all the more real. He swallows, mouth dry.

“How do you see this panning out?” He picks the first question that comes to mind. Anything, he’ll take anything if it’ll distract him. “End of the world. God’s wrath raining down on everything. Then what?”

If Joseph is bothered by the change in topic, he doesn’t sound it. _“Then, we wait until the world is ready for us. A new Eden. One that hasn’t been corrupted by man, where we can start over again. A second chance.”_

“Do you deserve that? A second chance, I mean. You’ve killed people, given orders that’ve caused a lot of suffering.”

To put it lightly. He’s lost count of the number of people crucified on the side of the road and strung up under bridges, corpses mutilated and riddled with bullets. Plenty of dead cultists too, though they’re usually left as they are rather than turned into macabre decorations. Warnings against sin and opposing the cult, he supposes.

_“Everything I do is for a purpose. This isn’t a path I tread lightly, Deputy. I knew when I first came to Hope County and we began to prepare that it wouldn’t be easy. That there would be sacrifices.”_ Joseph sounds tired as he speaks, but that conviction of his never wavers. _“In order to protect the faithful and guide as many people as possible to atonement so that they, too, can enter Eden…I can’t afford to make the easy choice.”_

“At what point does the bad outweigh the good?” he retorts, a mean smile curving at the edges of his mouth. The ground still feels cold. He doesn’t risk putting his hand down against it to prove it isn’t the wooden bench; if he felt dirt under his nails, now when he’s lingering at the edge of drowning in memories, it’d only push him into a far worse state. “Have you saved more people than you’ve hurt? Killed? They’ve gotta number in the hundreds by now. S’pose it’s all fine because it’s for a higher cause, right?”

The time it takes for an answer is telling.

_“What about you, Deputy?”_ Joseph says flatly, the warmth gone from his tone. _“I don’t pretend to be without fault, and I seek forgiveness for the sins I commit. Can you say the same? How many have you killed in these short few weeks? And of them, could you name even a handful?”_

No. Not a single one, actually.

A soft laugh escapes him, and he’s too numb to catch it in time. Here he is, arguing morality with a megalomaniac when he’s a remorseless killer himself. He’s probably the worse possible person for this. Any other time it might be fun to try, to fake at being the righteous hero the Resistance paints him as.

But the thing is, Rook is too damn tired to maintain any sense of satisfaction or the drive needed for a debate. Hell if he knows why Joseph hasn’t hung up at this point. Must still be sure he can sway Rook to see his side of things, digging in now that Rook accidentally revealed a vulnerability to Faith. What better time to try manipulating him than when he’s already weak, right?

But he doesn’t end the call. Any voice is better than the grating silence in his head, and he doesn’t want to risk lashing out at someone who doesn’t deserve it. He’d call Denise, but he doesn’t want to worry her.

“Tell me more about Eden.”

Joseph recovers well from the abrupt request, though there’s another long pause before he begins to speak. His voice washes over Rook as it enters a cadence better suited to preaching to a congregation, rather than one man laying on the forest floor.

He describes a world born anew, free from the cruelty and suffering which has doomed its predecessor to a slow death. One where people can live without the burdens of a society determined to crush them, either slotted into place within the hollow machine or cast aside as useless - or worse, as a detriment that needs to be removed.

Instead, Joseph tells him, they’ll be given a chance to repent for the sins they’ve committed in this life and be reborn as someone worthy of passing through Eden’s Gate. An opportunity to cast off the life of suffering that came before. In exchange, they would receive the loving support of a family that accepts them and will never abandon them.

They’ll enter Eden together once the world above has burned to ash, fulfilled by the knowledge that they’ve been chosen by God and allowed a second chance.

And yeah, Rook can see why so many people follow Joseph. It’s an appealing story. Tells people _you’re special, of course that horrible emptiness in your chest has never gone away no matter how you try to fill it, it isn’t your fault, it’s just the world you live in. Come to us, join us and we’ll give you all you’ve ever dreamed of. All you have to do is anything - everything - we tell you to._

At the end of the day, people just want to be happy. Sometimes it gets to the point where it doesn’t matter where that happiness comes from, or even if it’s real. Between fake happiness and an endless downward spiral…Not a hard choice.

Gradually, the ground starts to warm under him, feeling leeching back into his fingers. When he opens his eyes his vision is still filled with static at the edges, head pounding in time with his heartbeat, but it’s better than it was before. Quieter.

Makes him realise Joseph has trailed off, the steady rhythm of his voice gone silent. Rook checks the screen, but the call is still ongoing.

“Joseph?”

_“Yes, Deputy?”_

“Tell Faith…” He pushes himself up to a seated position, knee drawn to his chest. “Tell her not to use Bliss on me again, alright? If she wants to talk to me so bad-” He huffs, a sharp exhale that’s more amused than anything else, the earlier rage drained away. “-just fucking ask, okay?”

_“I’ll pass on the message.”_ There’s a short pause. _“Thank you for listening, Deputy.”_

Rook hesitates, bites back ‘anytime’ in favour of a neutral, “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huh i really have a habit of giving characters migraines (and trauma)


	8. Chapter 8

So. Turns out?

Rook went the wrong fucking way when he started walking towards - he thought - the jail.

For a long time, he just stares at the lake in betrayed bewilderment. The lake which he should not be anywhere near, considering it’s up north towards the edge of Faith’s territory while the jail is much further south-west. He has a hopeful second of wondering if maybe this is a different lake, one he didn’t know about. But then he moves to a point where he can see Joseph’s statue - and yep, it sure is in that direction.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Rook is- he’s tired, alright? It’s been a long day, and it’s getting darker, and he really wants to go to sleep and be done with today. Instead he’s miles off where he should be, exhausted and still shaking slightly as the Bliss leaves his system. Even the phone ran out of charge hours ago.

He’s been avoiding roads and paths so he hasn’t had chance to get a new radio, either. It’s been a long while since he first headed out that day, and the last person he spoke to was Tracey, letting her know he was done with another outpost for them to either take over or strip for resources. Usually he checks in every few hours with an update or to respond to another request for help, so he isn’t sure how they’ll take his silence, especially if Boomer’s with them.

Fuck it. They can handle being without him for a day. The sun’s almost set at this point, and he could really do with some rest, so he isn’t going to push himself any further. From here he can see a cabin that doesn’t have any cult symbols around it, tucked between trees and set a distance from the road with a rust bucket of a truck parked in the driveway. No lights and no bullet holes. It’ll make a decent enough place to sleep for the night.

He scouts the cabin out first, walks the perimeter before heading inside and checking each room. It’s a small place, big enough for the one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living space made cramped by a huge leather couch and boxy TV with a fist-shaped dent in the side.

The windows aren’t smashed in like most he places he’s seen lately, no bullet holes in any doors or dead bodies left to rot on the patchy carpet. The worst thing about the place is a gross smell coming off of the fridge - which, no, he is _not_ going to open.

What he does do is fill up the kettle with water and put it on the stove. There’s gas but no electricity, which means he can’t charge his phone but he can make a cup of tea, so there’s that. A thorough look around yields no radios or phones, annoyingly. The cupboards have all been left open, same for a half-empty wardrobe. Whoever lived here might’ve gotten some warning about the cultists and tried to clear out. If they’re lucky, it would’ve happened before the roads got blocked. Either that or some other scavenger came through before him.

Rook sinks into the couch, drink in hand, and releases a heavy sigh. What a day.

He’s hoping the kidnapping won’t become a regular thing. It’ll be killer to his reputation. The corner of his mouth ticks up, but soon smooths out again.

The Seeds and their determination to make him convert is…confusing. Yeah, he gets that they’re crazy religious zealots and that means they don’t have to make sense, but it seems like a lot of effort to put into a lost cause. Sunk cost fallacy aside, he would’ve thought that the sheer amount of their people he kills would be enough to dissuade them. After all, who’d want to have the murderer of their followers and ‘family’ join them?

He gets that John doesn’t have a choice, Faith too if she’s been given the same ultimatum, but Joseph? The guy seems rational enough aside from the whole ‘the end is coming’ shtick. He’s got to see that Rook isn’t worth the effort.

A faint grimace crosses his face. Okay, Rook’ll admit it - he probably isn’t doing all he could to dissuade them. Chatting with them on the phone, listening to Joseph ramble on about Eden, he’s definitely giving mixed signals here. He can’t help it. Half his interest in this shitshow is sparked by how fucked up the Seeds are, and talking to them is fuel to his desire to stay in Hope County and see this through to the end. It’s their fault for being so interesting.

It’s just weird that they don’t want to straight up kill him in return. He isn’t used to that.

Maybe Jacob does? He’s former military, been training up his soldiers and Judges and tearing up the Whitetail Mountains with an efficiency Rook can admire. The Resistance up there has the hardest time from what Rook’s heard, and it’s just getting worse as Jacob keeps building up his forces with their own men.

Rook bets that if Jacob kidnapped him, he’d do the sensible thing and kill Rook rather than trying to convert him.

Finally, a normal reaction.

The cupboards were mostly cleared of food - Rook probably isn’t the first person to go through here - but there was a tin of vegetable soup he heated up that makes for a decent enough dinner. The nausea from the…everything that happened earlier still lingers, ruining his appetite, but he knows it’s a dumb idea to start skipping too many meals.

A night of sleep leaves him feeling a hell of a lot better when he wakes in the morning. It’s later than he usually gets up, his body making use of the opportunity to sleep in a bit. The bed has a decent mattress and he’s slept on the ground or in trees enough lately to appreciate it. He gets up, enjoys another cup of tea, and starts the trek back to the jail.

It’s about mid-morning when he hears the familiar shrieks of a cougar, followed by terrified screams.

Rook is moving towards the noises on automatic, honed by weeks of helping out people held hostage at the side of the road or tied up near Bliss-polluted water. Proper good Samaritan right now, isn’t he? As long as he doesn’t go growing morals he should be fine.

The small clearing he follows the screams to looks like an old campsite, a firepit dug into the dirt and logs on their sides around it. He spots a cougar just as it leaps towards someone, claws outstretched whilst the man cowers, gun clicking empty.

Rook almost shoots the cougar in the head before he spots the red collar on its neck. His shot hits the ground in front of it instead, making the animal snarl and dart back. He fishes through his pack and grabs some deer meat that would’ve been Boomer’s dinner, and flings it down near the cougar.

It evidently decides it likes dead meat more than living, because it makes a beeline for it and drags the meat partially behind a tree so the cougar is barely visible. Hard to miss the sounds of it chomping down on the meat, though.

“You alright?” Rook moves towards the man still laying on the ground. The guy’s panting heavily, eyes wide as dinner plates and face gone white. His brown hair’s a complete mess, and there’s scratches steadily seeping blood over his forearms, with another swipe that seems to have only gone through his sweater.

His off-white sweater with Eden’s Gate’s cross on it.

Ah.

“Y-You’re-” Oh, that’s definitely recognition. Terror, too, which would usually make Rook feel all warm and fuzzy, but he just feels kind of awkward right now. Kid isn’t a threat, doesn’t even have a working gun, and he looks like a strong breeze could knock him over. Rook isn’t so much of a dick that he’ll kill him for no reason.

“Yup. That’s me.” Rook heads over to the cougar happily snacking on the deer meat.

Nancy can be blamed for him leaving it alive. Miss Mabel is one of the locals that Nancy loved to complain about, doing her best to make him understand just how inexcusably rude she is all the time, why she even pushed past Nancy the other day to get the last carton of grape juice, and has he heard about that cougar of hers she keeps in a cage next to her home? How barbaric!

So he sees a cougar with a red collar near where Miss Mabel lives, and it’s an easy assumption to make. There’s…a lot of dead, clawed up bodies in the clearing for a supposedly domesticated cougar, not all of them cultists, but when Rook cautiously moves up to it - her - the cougar is purring loudly.

“Hey there,” Rook murmurs, crouching down beside her. Mismatched eyes meet his own, green and blue, and she chirps at him curiously. Rook’s been attacked by enough cougars in the past few weeks to have a healthy level of caution - okay, maybe less than healthy, but a decent amount by his standards - so he’s ready to go for the combat knife at his belt if need be.

The cougar doesn’t show any sign of attacking. He reaches out, fuelled by the same curiosity that’s landed him in danger more times than he can count, and is pleasantly surprised when she rubs her head against his hand rather than biting it off.

A delighted grin spreads across his mouth as he pets the cougar, fingers digging into the coarse fur at her neck. Peaches, her collar says. She’s a big thing, much larger than the skinny cougar which had attacked him in Holland Valley, and he feels the weight of her when she pushes harder into his hands.

He keeps an eye on the cultist the whole time, but the kid doesn’t move much. He’s sat up now, watching Rook with those wide scaredy cat eyes of his. Can’t be much older than eighteen or nineteen, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. No other weapons on him apart from that empty gun, and he isn’t eyeing the fallen weapons scattered about the clearing, so Rook feels confident in dismissing him as much of a threat.

He pats Peaches’s head with a soft, “Stay.” No clue if she’ll listen, but worth the try. Then he heads back over to the kid, who finally unfreezes to scramble back only to fall on his ass with a pained yelp, clutching his arm.

Rook gives a disarming smile. “Whoa, I’m not gonna hurt you.” It’s a process, shifting his body language into something less threatening, into the skin he wore as Michael Rook. A softening in his face, shoulders lowered just a bit, his stance less carefully braced and muscles relaxed. He keeps his movements slow as he reaches into his pack, the first aid kit always kept right at the top.

Holding it out in offering, he crouches near the kid. “I can leave this with you, or I can help patch you up. Your choice.”

The kid stares at him, slack-jawed.

“Why?” he finally blurts out. “Why would you help me? You’re- You’re the Deputy, you’ve been killing us!” He flinches immediately, as if the reminder will make Rook go into a murderous rage.

Rook shrugs loosely. “I’m feeling merciful. Guess it’s your lucky day.” He shakes the first aid kit lightly. “So. Want my help?”

He gets stared at for a few more long seconds. The kid tries to move his arm again, maybe to take the kit from him, but it makes his face twist with pain. He gives a shaky nod.

“Awesome.” Rook grins brightly, every inch the friendly go-getter who’d never so much as hurt a fly as he starts on disinfecting the wound. It feels kind of nice to slip into that old mask of his. He hasn’t had much use for it lately, and while that’s a good thing, the familiarity is comforting too. Like a safety blanket.

Being this person reminds him that there’s a big bad world he’s going to get back to once this is over, and though the thought fills him with a heavy, dull emotion he doesn’t want to examine too closely, it’s good to look at things realistically. He won’t be in Hope County forever, and he needs to be ready to go back to his usual masks.

He tucks the bloodied wipes aside to be thrown away later - he’s no litterer, thank you very much, and bullet casings don’t count - and raises an eyebrow. “You got a name?”

“N-No.” The kid swallows thickly, still nervous as anything. “I-I mean, I haven’t chosen my new name yet.”

“You guys pick new names when you join the- Project?” Don’t call a cultist a cultist, they don’t like that.

“Not always, um, only if you want to. To- it can help with casting off the past. Becoming someone new.”

That’s one part of the cult he could get behind. His smile becomes a little more genuine. “Who needs the past, right? Only drags you down in the end.”

Oddly that seems to make the kid relax a bit. “The Father says that we can’t help our pasts, but we can prevent it from causing us suffering in the future. It only has as much power over us as we let it.” He sounds like he’s reciting it, some colour coming back to his pale cheeks.

And yeah, that sure sounds like something Joseph would say. Even putting aside his own past, what self-respecting cult leader _wouldn’t_ encourage his followers to break away from their pasts so they can become the loyal servants he wants them to be?

“You really admire the Father, huh?”

“Of course!” The kid actually leans forward, eyes bright. “He changed my life- not just mine, but the lives of every other member of the faithful. He cares for his flock and will lead us through Eden’s Gate.” The phrasing sounds awkward in the kid’s mouth, like he still isn’t used to talking like an Televangelist. Another reminder of his age. Makes Rook feel positively ancient, eesh.

“How long have you been one of his faithful?”

He looks proud to be acknowledged as such, then a little embarrassed. “Um, not long. I only started attending his sermons a few months ago. Some of us have been going for years.”

“Yeah?”

The kid nods. “Like the Heralds’ Chosen. I think lots of them joined near the very beginning, and you only get to become a Chosen if you’re really skilled,” he says with an undercurrent of admiration and longing. Then he offers a hesitant smile. “They’re kind of scary though. Herald Jacob’s Chosen don’t talk much.”

“Are you from his region?”

“No, uh-” He bites his lip. “I’m from Holland Valley.”

“Oh? Long way from home.”

The kid straightens up, chest puffing out. “I’m on a vital mission set by Herald John himself. To-” His eyes flicker over Rook’s face, and he hunches in on himself. “To, um. Do something. Important.”

Rook hums, amusement warming the sound. It makes the kid blush. “Something John couldn’t ask Faith to look into for him?”

He looks scandalised at Rook using the heralds’ names so casually, bereft of their titles. Like they’re actually fucking monarchy or something to the cultists. Rook imagines John reclining on a gaudy throne, a crown on his slicked back hair and a sceptre in hand. Not a bad look for him.

“I don’t- I don’t know. It isn’t our place to question the will of the Heralds and the Father,” he says with that stiff formality.

“Has he asked you to kill for him yet?” Rook asks idly, no judgement in his tone. The kid flinches anyway.

He looks down, picking at his jeans with the hand Rook isn’t bandaging up, still shaking with pain and leftover adrenaline. “It’s- It’s necessary. We need to defend ourselves, to- to save the sinners so they can join us, but they keep fighting back and they don’t _understand,_ we only want to help them! They won’t listen, none of them do, and they try to hurt us and I don’t want to hurt anyone, that’s not why we’re doing this!”

He meets Rook’s surprised gaze and there’s desperation there, the urgent need for someone to listen, to forgive him. “We’re not the bad guys,” he insists hoarsely. “They’ll all die if they don’t join us, if they don’t seek absolution before the end. We have to help them. And if we can’t- we need to make sure we survive.”

Rook blinks at the outburst, watching the kid breathe heavily for a long moment. Then, he pats his shoulder and offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

The kid stares at him with wide eyes.

Rook finishes up bandaging his arms, putting some gauze on one particularly deep cut. “You’ll need stitches for this one, so best get it checked out by a proper doctor or medic. I can do stitches but to be honest? You’re gonna want stronger painkillers than what I have on me.”

When the kid doesn’t say anything Rook packs up the kit and stands. Peaches is still in the clearing, sniffing around a dead cultist like she’s considering taking a chunk out of his side. Rook shifts so he’s blocking the kid’s view of her, because _oof,_ talk about traumatising.

“Well, nice meeting you He-Who-Has-Not-Been-Named, but I’d best be off.” He pulls his backpack on and starts to turn to Peaches. “Good luck on the secret mission John set you.”

“He sent me to find you!”

Rook stops in his tracks.

When he looks over his shoulder, the kid has a hand clapped over his mouth like he wishes he could shove the words back in. Then he takes a shaky breath and pushes himself to his feet. “The Herald…he ordered us to find you, report on your actions but not to engage.”

And oh, that’s interesting. He only spoke to John a few days ago, and surely he must’ve heard what went down yesterday. Is he really so impatient that he’d sent men after Rook? But no, he ordered them to report on what he’s doing, not drug and kidnap him. Learnt his lesson, maybe.

“You got a radio I can borrow?”

The kid fumbles with it in his attempt to quickly offer it out, and Rook thanks him before he takes it. It’s set on one of the cultist frequencies, a lesser known one that probably isn’t being monitored by the Resistance since it doesn’t usually drop any interesting information, from what Dutch has grumbled about. Not exactly private, but as close as he’ll get without a charger for his phone.

And honestly? Rook’s never had an issue with having an audience.

“This is Deputy Michael Rook for Herald John Seed, over,” he says in a pleasant drawl. If John doesn’t pick up within a minute Rook will eat his boot.

He isn’t disappointed. Maybe thirty seconds after he spoke, a familiar voice comes over the radio. _“Finally crawled out of whatever hole you fell in, have you?_ ” Still the usual smug disdain that’s always evident in the broadcasts his outposts love to play, but is that _relief_ he hears?

“Were you worried about me?” Rook’s grin is so wide it hurts, his tone equally as delighted.

_“Not in the slightest,”_ John snarls, too much threat in it for it to be anything other than a lie. _“I’d hoped that perhaps, finally, your senseless violence had been put to an end as it should have weeks ago. It was immensely cathartic to picture your bullet-ridden corpse tossed in a ditch. Or maybe you’d fallen down a crevasse and broken your legs, left to a slow, painful death without any hope of being found by your fellow sinners.”_

“You’re so sweet,” Rook coos. “Is that why you sent a search party out? In case I was in trouble?”

_“No-!”_ John cuts himself off with a harsh exhale. _“How do you know about the search party?”_

“I’ve got one of them with me.” Rook waves the kid over, who’s staring at him with bewilderment but does walk closer. “I don’t know his name but he says you sent him out here.”

_“He told you.”_

The kid winces.

“Don’t get angry with him for telling me; he’s just been mauled by a cougar, cut him some slack.”

There’s a brief pause. _“He’s still alive?”_

The surprise is just a little offensive. C’mon, it isn’t like Rook kills every cultist he meets. The Seeds are still alive and kicking, aren’t they? “Talk to him yourself if you don’t believe me.” He offers the radio out to the kid, who manages to look even more anxious than he did when Rook started bandaging him up,

“H-Herald, I-” He swallows, eyes flickering up to meet Rook’s. “I found the Deputy.”

_“Yes. That much is obvious,_ ” John says slowly, as if he isn’t sure how to feel about this new development. _“You’re unharmed?”_

“I, um.” The kid somehow hunches in on himself even more. “I got attacked by a cougar and the Deputy saved me and put bandages on my wounds and-” he says in a rush, the last part no more than an ashamed murmur, “-and I’m sorry I messed up.”

John sighs, and Rook pictures him pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. _“It’s fine. I should have expected this. It’s clear that no plan will ever go the way it should as soon as it involves_ you.” Who he means by ‘you’ is pretty obvious.

Rook takes the radio back, keeps his tone nice and even when he speaks. “You mean like Faith’s plan to drug me until I’m willing to jump off a hundred foot tall statue? How’s that for ‘not a threat’.”

_“She never would have harmed you,”_ John insists.

“Define harm.” It takes some effort now to restrain the snarl building in his chest, and he carefully boxes up that lingering anger. It won’t help him now.

_“It’s interesting that you would consider her actions harmful, whereas you never so much as flinched when you were in my chair,”_ John observes, and is now really the time to act smug?

Rook rolls his eyes. “I’ve been tortured or threatened with it more times than I can count. If you want me shaking in my boots you’ll need to try harder than that.”

_“Oh, I intend to.”_ Malice sounds too warm in John’s voice, not enough cold threat to dampen the raw eagerness that’s far closer to _need_ than Rook would expect a guy like John to reveal. _“I could describe in great detail everything I plan to do to you, the sins I will reveal and etch into your skin. However, I believe that’s a discussion best had in person, Rook.”_

His name rolls off John’s tongue in a way that’s far too- _much_ for an open radio call. Rook expects he’ll be hearing from Joseph again about leading John astray.

“Can we take a rain check on that?” He glances over at the kid, who looks as if he’s entered a bizarre reality where nothing makes sense and the only thing to do is accept it or go mad. “There’s some errands I’ve gotta run, and I don’t want to be distracted during this talk of ours. You deserve my full attention, after all.”

_“You’re not done making a mess of Faith’s territory?”_ John sounds disgruntled of all things. Considering Rook is taking apart their regions piece by piece, he’d expect a little more concern. Some anger at least.

“You could say that.” Not really. He’ll be heading north next, once he picks up Boomer. It’s about time he checks out this Whitetail Militia and see how they’ve been holding up. Hell, if he’s lucky they’ll be competent allies. “Oh, hey - where should I leave the kid? I did what I could but he’s pretty banged up.”

_“I’m sure he can find his own way to an outpost - unless you’ve destroyed them all.”_

Rook snorts. “Nah, I haven’t hit the Henbane as bad as I did the valley. There’s still a few around.”

_“How gracious of you.”_

“I know, right? I never get any appreciation from you guys. Sometimes I think you don’t even like me anymore,” he whines, winking at the kid with a playful grin.

There’s just static over the radio for a few seconds. _“Whether I like you or not has no bearing on the fact that I will guide you back to your rightful place on the path to Eden.”_ He’s using what Rook decides to call his ‘lawyer voice’; smooth and slick and a little too perfect to be sincere.

He mock pouts even though John can’t see it. “I’m hurt. Just when I was starting to consider you my favourite, you say shit like that. My heart can only take so much.”

He flicks the radio off before he can get a response. Hell yeah, Rook’s the fucking king of having the last word. Joseph can keep his grand, biblical proclamations; Rook’s the one with the most Dramatic Bitch energy.

“Can I keep this?” He wiggles the radio at the kid. “Mine’s broken.”

It takes a few seconds for him to reboot. “Um, of course!” He gives a wobbly smile, fiddling with his pistol like he’s only just noticed he’s holding it and isn’t sure what to do with it. Not much, considering it’s empty.

Taking pity on him, Rook picks up one of the discarded AR-Cs and hands it over. “In case any more cougars decide to take a bite out of you. You gonna be okay getting to an outpost?”

The kid nods quickly. “Yeah, I- I’ll be fine. Uh.” His gaze darts away, down to the ground then back up to Rook’s face, and down again to his chest. “Thanks for- for helping me. Why did you?” he blurts the question out, then looks as if he immediately regrets it. “I know you already answered, but it doesn’t make sense. You’re a sinner and you’ve been killing the faithful and- and everyone knows how wrathful you are, the Herald named your sin himself, but then he talks to you like-” He cuts himself off, struggling to find the right words and looking more confused for it.

Not gonna lie, Rook is sort of loving that he’s been confusing so many people lately.

He chuckles and pats the kid’s shoulder. “Does it have to make sense? Nothing wrong with a little chaos. Hell, if you think about it, ain’t that the antidote to a fucked up society? Doing things just ‘cause you want to, instead of what’s expected or for some sort of reward. I’d have thought the Project would be down for that.”

Not exactly. Far as he can tell the Project don’t have much of a solid philosophy beyond ‘society bad’, ‘Us versus Them’, and ‘be pure of sin or God will strike you down’. It’s all focused on the Collapse and how perfect Eden will be, rather than the realities of the people who actually have to live through it. Sure, John has the market cornered on redemption through suffering - very Christian of him - and Joseph preaches of family and acceptance, but none of it offers anything new.

All they’ve got going for them is the depths they’re willing to sink in their dream of doomsday. Oh, and pure entertainment value, because Rook sure as hell can’t resist engaging with the Seeds even when they piss him off. Oliver would call it self-destructive, lecture him on how this will only end in disaster.

Worth it.


	9. Chapter 9

He sees the kid off and takes Peaches back to her owner. She’s happy enough to trot alongside him, wandering off from time to time but coming back when he calls her name. The trail of dead bodies is easy to follow, most of them civilians by the look of it. Maybe giving her back to someone so irresponsible isn’t a great idea? Not sure if he can talk, considering the shit he gets up to.

Rook gets in touch with the Resistance on the way. Dutch answers first, relief clear in his voice under all that grouchiness, which is a pleasant surprise. Less of a pleasant surprise is that apparently people have started wondering if he’d gotten lured in by Faith and turned into one of her sycophants like Burke. C’mon, give him a little credit here. He’s an expert at bouncing back from having his head fucked with.

Whitehorse is the next to get on the line. _“You had us all worried, Rook. When that dog of yours came in barkin’ up a storm I feared the worst.”_

Rook gives Peaches’ neck a scritch when she rubs against his side, passing by another mauled body. Rook checks the woman’s backpack and grins when he finds a first aid kit. Waste not, want not. “Nothing more than a little kidnapping. These Seeds are big into catch and release, so there’s no need to worry.”

If they really want to indoctrinate him they should just put him in complete solitary isolation for a few weeks, add in sleep deprivation and stress positions if they don’t feel like going traditional torture. He can’t say he’d break - Rook is really, really good at being an inconvenient jackass - but it’d do more than these little chats in convincing him to join them.

_“Still, maybe it’s best you take a break. I know how the Bliss can mess with your mind.”_ Aw, is that honest concern? Can’t go losing your ace so quickly, huh? The Resistance would be pretty fucked if Rook did switch sides. Even mindless Bliss zombie Rook could do some damage.

“Sorry sir, I’m too much of a workaholic to be taking vacation days.” Besides, this is way better than any vacation Rook’s ever had. His own personal Disneyland, complete with shoulder-mounted RPGs and pretty psychopaths hellbent on getting him to join them.

He gets off the radio after a few more reassurances that he’ll head for the jail soon. By that time he’s almost reached Miss Mabel’s place, and Peaches sprints ahead of him while he jogs along behind her.

So. He’s guessing that’s Miss Mabel’s corpse over beside the house. There are a couple dead cultists too, but at least one of them had shot her before he went down, unless they had some friends. Which leaves him with a violent, blood-thirsty cougar without an owner, and he’s gonna go ahead and assume the wildlife centre won’t be up for taking in any new residents right now.

“Why does this keep happening to me?” he mutters, watching Peaches lope ahead as they make their way to the jail.

* * *

The reaction they get at the jail makes it all worth it.

The guards stare with wide eyes as Rook and Peaches walk up towards the gates, guns held in slack hands that would’ve had Rook’s old commander yelling at them. He waits patiently for them to let him in, smiling blandly at the three gob-smacked men and patting Peaches’ head. “Howdy boys.”

Damn, he needs to get his hands on a stetson. He’s got John’s sunglasses on but a cowboy hat would really complete the look.

“What’re you lot staring at?” Tracey comes into view, peering down at him and just. Gaping for a moment. “Why do you have a cougar.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He gets a flat look in return. Then Tracey looks skyward as if praying for strength, and waves for the guards to open the gates and let him in. Good to know that it isn’t just the cult he can drive to exasperation.

Seconds after he passes through the gate, Rook gets a faceful of very excited dog. He grins as he kneels down and ruffles Boomer’s fur, the enthusiastic barks making him wince at the volume so close to his face. “Who’s the best boy? It’s you, you’re the best boy in the whole wide world!”

There’s a soft warning growl at his side. He throws an arm around Peaches’ neck, waiting for claws but only getting a headbutt for his daring to drag her in. “Yeah, we all know who’s best girl around here.”

He’s had Peaches for like, a few hours, and already adores her. On the way here he had the chance to watch her tear through a cultist’s throat. The sheer weight of her threw the man to the ground, claws making mince meat of his chest, and it didn’t take long for his struggles and screams to cease. Rook gave her lots of petting afterwards, barely sparing a thought to whether this was the proper way to treat a domesticated cougar. She purred, so he figures he’s on the right tracks.

Boomer sniffs at Peaches curiously, and it’s hilarious to watch the way she imperiously draws back, head tucked in and eyeing him like he’s prey. He drags his fingers through the fur under her chin, gets at the spot he’s discovered she likes best. Instantly she’s relaxing, eyes going half-lidded with contentment and a purr rumbling through her chest.

“No trying to eat Boomer, okay?” He pets Boomer’s head with his free hand. “Friend, not food.”

Boomer wags his tail happily, and Rook takes it as a good sign that Peaches doesn’t immediately pounce. Or that Boomer doesn’t attack either - Rook’s seen him go after cougars before. Maybe it’s because Peaches’ smell is all over Rook? Hell if Rook knows shit about how this situation should go.

“Picked up another member for this circus act of yours?”

He looks up to see Tracey eyeing him, arms crossed and a distinctly unimpressed expression on her face. It’s a lot nicer to see than the glints of hero worship people have started shooting him lately. Makes his skin crawl.

“Well it ain’t like you people are gonna pay me. Gotta make money somehow, right?”

He barely has a hundred dollars to his name right now. It’s a novel feeling. Sure, there’s several hundred grand scattered across different bank accounts, more in various investments, but that’s all inaccessible right now. At least it’s easy enough to get by on scavenging, though he’s starting to miss being able to order takeout. Part of the reason he stops by places like Fall’s End and the jail is because they’ll feed him.

Tracey snorts. “C’mon, Sheriff wants to talk to you. Leave the cougar outside.”

He does, but only after securing some food for Peaches to dig into while he’s gone. Fuck anyone who says he isn’t a responsible pet owner.

When they get inside the jail, Whitehorse is discussing taking over one of the outposts Rook grabbed for them. It’s pretty far from the jail, closer to where Faith’s forces are densest, so they’re leaning towards stripping it down rather than waste manpower holding it, at least for now. Oh, and clearing out the bodies - which makes Whitehorse hide a grimace.

Yeah. That’d been- one of the messier ones. Rook had found a pitchfork and thought it’d be funny to use it because the cultists keep calling him a sinner, but turns out? The thing gets stuck between ribs real easy. Vertebrae, too. But he’d committed to a theme and he was going to follow it through, darn it.

Whitehorse loses the grimace when he sees Rook, not without a slight tensing in his shoulders. Just a little wariness, but Rook is too valuable for his violence to be looked at unfavourably. He’s betting there’ll be no going back to his job as Junior Deputy after this, though.

Not that there was much possibility of that, considering how compromised this identity is. He’s going to need to go abroad for a while. Maybe brush up on his Arabic, it’s getting rusty from disuse.

“Rook.” Whitehorse nods in greeting. Just a few weeks of this has added stress lines to his forehead and darkened the bags under his eyes. Guess not everyone’s having as fun a time as Rook is. “Good, I need to talk to you. Radio’s not the most secure, otherwise I would’ve said somethin’ earlier.”

“What’s up?” Rook leans his hip against the table with a map of the region on it. Tacks mark out outposts and other points of interest, Faith’s bunker circled in red in the east. Apparently it’s a decommissioned missile silo that’s been converted into a bunker, same for John’s, rather than built from scratch. Explains a little better how that much construction could’ve been missed, he supposes?

Then again they got away with building a huge ass statue of Joseph, so he doubts bunker construction would’ve been the final straw before the Law came down on them. Nah, took a naive US Marshal for that to happen.

“You heard of the Whitetail Militia?” At Rook’s affirmative he continues, “We haven’t heard from them in days. No one has. Jacob Seed’s been coming down hard on them, so communication’s always been patchy. Usually Dutch will hear from them or that niece of his, but there’s been nothin’.”

“You want me to check it out.”

Whitehorse manages to look as sheepish as he does tired. “I know we’re askin’ a lot from you, Rook. Wouldn’t blame you if you told us all to fuck off.”

Rook earnestly clasps a hand to his chest. “I’d never be so disrespectful.”

It makes Whitehorse snort and eye him dubiously. “I’ve got the feeling that bein’ disrespectful ain’t anything new to you. Either way, I’d appreciate you looking into things up there. If we’re goin’ to hold out against the peggies, we need Eli and his people.”

Good thing Rook was considering heading up that way, then. Now it’ll look like he’s doing Whitehorse a favour, which should help with whatever he thinks of Rook’s casual violence. Can’t have the Resistance turning on him - that kind of shift shouldn’t happen until just before the big boss fight.

“Sure thing, Sheriff. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Rook seriously can’t be bothered to trek through the wilderness again, so he commandeers a cult truck a couple miles up the road. Getting Peaches into the damn thing is a battle and a half, only won because he threw in a chunk of meat for her to snack on and then made sure to have all the windows fully rolled up. She starts growling the moment the truck begins to move, but eventually settles down when scratching at the insides of the doors doesn’t get them open. Thank Christ for child locks.

Helping out Dutch’s missing niece is the first thing on the agenda. Baron Lumber Mill is near the southern edge of the Whitetails, so Rook only runs into - and over - a few cultists on the route there.

He’s distinctly bemused by the sight that greets him. People in cages, really Jacob? And there’s what he’s guessing is Jacob’s voice over the speakers. Talk of empires falling, the need for sacrifice and culling the herd to rid themselves of the weak who attempt to rule over the strong. An insistence that only the strongest should survive.

_Someone_ took Social Darwinism a bit too seriously.

Rook does sort of wonder whether he’s proving or disproving Jacob’s point as he picks his men off. On the one hand, these guys show the signs of better training and therefore should be considered strong, yet here’s Rook punching in their throats and driving a knife up through the roofs of their mouths. On the other, Rook could be considered the one displaying his strength, and he’s kind of doing the culling here, right?

See, this is why Rook doesn’t go around preaching his own personal philosophy. That shit gets confusing if you start questioning it.

He keeps things quiet, sending Peaches out to chew on a few guys far from the hostages and holding Boomer back until Rook opens up the alarm and tears out the wires. There’s a guy in heavy armour holding a machine gun which Rook doesn’t fancy getting shot by.

He wastes no time in climbing up on a a storage unit where a sniper was set up until Rook broke his neck, laying down on the roof and waiting for the right moment to put a bullet through Mr Machine Gun’s eye. Even thick, masked helmet’s have eye holes, after all, and there’s not much that can stop a .50 cal. Tad overkill, but that’s pretty much Rook’s signature at this point.

It sure isn’t quiet though, so he’s quick about killing the last three guards. Boomer gets one of them, leaving Rook to sidle up behind a man scrambling for his radio. He takes advantage of the distraction and slices into the back of his neck, jerking the knife in a hard twist that makes the man crumble.

The last guy turns the corner seconds after, rifle coming up to aim at Rook, but not quickly enough to fire first.

The hostages are suitably grateful - if a bit terrified - when he releases them from the cages. They even make themselves useful by helping out the ones still locked up, giving Rook the chance to pick through the cultist’s belongings. He eventually talks himself into keeping the sniper rifle - he can handle the extra weight, c’mon, he needs the practice - which means he’s in need of extra ammo, which the cultists are happy to supply him with.

Dutch has complained about how the cult has way more stockpiled weaponry and ammunition than the Resistance does, but honestly, it’s real fucking easy just to steal their shit rather than buying it off the traders Rook’s seen around the place. It isn’t the quality he’s used to, sure, and he’d love to use his own gear more. But at the end of the day, he doesn’t need fancy tools to get the job done. This method of scavenging and using their own weapons against them at least means he isn’t likely to run out any time soon.

He’s just loaded up his backpack with some ammunition, Peaches laid out at his feet in a patch of sunlight and Boomer lapping at a bowl of water Rook grabbed for him, when Dutch’s niece approaches.

She hesitates for a moment, eyeing Peaches like she’s considering going for her bow, before squaring up in front of Rook. “Thanks for bustin’ me out. Name’s Jess. If you’re out here pickin’ fights with the cult, then I’m guessin’ you already know my Uncle Dutch.”

“He’s the one who sent me this way. Mentioned a niece of his might need a little help.”

Jess’ mouth pulls down into a hard frown. “I was on the trail of one of Jacob’s zealots when a peggie patrol got the drop on me. Ain’t like I’d usually need the help, but I can’t risk his trail gettin’ cold. Got reckless.”

He wouldn’t peg her as the reckless type. Her bow and practical clothing makes him think hunter, and he’s proven correct when she asks him along on her revenge quest against the Cook.

Burning people alive has always struck Rook as a little gauche. Plus it makes him hungry, and having his stomach rumble is just awkward. So he’s happy to follow along, matching Jess’s preference for stealth since the situation involves more hostages.

Bit of a waste of resources, burning people instead of turning them into soldiers. Isn’t that what Jacob is trying to do here? Or has he decided that these ones are too weak to be worth it? Makes him wonder what kind of tests are involved. Pass rate must be shit - are there grades? Like, okay, you’re decent enough to get sent on patrols around the region, you’re just about alright for ferrying supplies around, and those at the top of the class get to join the Chosen.

He’s brought out of his wandering thoughts by Jess’s tale of the Cook. Yeah, the guy easily makes the ranks of Humanity’s Shitstains. If this is the sort of person Jacob considers one of his best, Rook is seriously throwing some judgement his way. At Joseph too, actually. Where exactly does a psychopath who enjoys setting people on fire and making their kids eat bits of their parents fit in this paradise of his?

“Want to do the honours?” he asks Jess. They’re crouched up on a ledge, watching the Cook yelling away about people’s souls being plagued by filth, the corpse hung up in front of him kept burning by his flamethrower. A good shot to the gas cannisters on his back will take him out - a fitting end, too.

Jess is tense beside him, knuckles white where they grip her bow. It hardly seems like she’s breathing. And fuck, but Rook gets it. When you hate someone this much for so long, finally being in a place where you can kill them is-

It’s a heavy feeling. Easy to get drunk on, but just as easy to falter at the idea of actually making reality of a thing you’ve imagined over and over again. Too many options, none of them quite right. Wondering whether it’ll be enough to make up for all the suffering you experienced, and knowing it won’t. Doing it anyway.

So he waits for her to make her mind up and doesn’t push. Just keeps an eye on the cultists in case anyone looks their way.

She takes a slow breath, then draws her bow. It’s all the answer he needs.

When Jess lets the arrow fly Rook is already down the hill, creeping up behind a man they’ve got up on some scaffolding. The explosion rocks the structure and provides a good distraction, making it easy to close those last few steps. Then he vaults over the wooden panelling, catching sight of a limp body burning away near where the Cook once stood, and sets to killing the remaining men.

After, he finds Jess standing beside the corpse. It’s barely recognisable as a person at this point. Just another chunk of meat.

“Dutch was right,” Jess says, face empty of expression. “Cook’s dead and…I don’t feel anything. All I ever wanted was to find this guy, and now…” Her voice grows fainter, a crack in the numbness. “I don’t…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You stopped this piece of shit from hurting anyone else. I think you’ve done plenty.” Rook bites the corner of his lower lip, hesitating a moment, and doesn’t look at her when he speaks. “I know it doesn’t feel like enough. He’ll never regret what he did, and killing him doesn’t erase the shit he did when he was alive. But you’ll know he isn’t out there anymore. He doesn’t get to live. Doesn’t get to enjoy his life while you’re still suffering because of him.”

Rook swallows, and reigns back the heat in his voice. “He can’t hurt anyone else, and he’ll never get the chance to.”

Culling the herd, huh? Jacob should really consider how easy that phrase is to twist to fit a situation.

“Sounds like you’re talkin’ from experience.”

Rook shoots her a plastic smile. “Me? Don’t you know I’m just a Junior Deputy?”

Jess snorts. “People believe that bull after seein’ you in a fight?” Some of the tension leaves her as they turn away from the Cook’s remains, though her fingers linger on her bow.

“S’why I fight alone most of the time.” Boomer runs over to him as if to object to that statement, and Rook chuckles as he drags his fingers through Boomer’s fur. “Apart from my hot-shot team here.”

The corners of Jess’s mouth quirk up. It isn’t a soft expression, not how she wears it, but there isn’t as much wariness as Rook would expect. Just that steady note of respect in her eyes, and a gratitude that Rook still isn’t used to seeing directed at him. “You ever need someone to watch your back, give me a call.”

The offer is a surprise - Jess strikes him as the loner type - but he nods all the same.

It also reminds him that he hasn’t been taking anyone up on these offers. He hears about what they’re doing to help the Resistance - Nick shooting down cult planes, Grace taking out convoys, and Sharky’s happy to regale him with rambling tales about the gunboats he somehow manages to set on fire - but he rarely actually works with another person.

He’s gotten used to working on his own for the past few years, only getting a team together if the job needs a larger force or specialised skills. It’s better that way; less people to fuck things up, lower chance of getting stabbed in the back, and a bigger share of the cash at the end. Sure, it’s more dangerous, but that’s never been a big concern.

His friends are…special cases. They aren’t with him in person on jobs, Denise only providing surveillance support and the weapons he uses, while Oliver is there to patch him up in the aftermath or give him vaccines when he’s heading to certain countries. Amanda’s field tends towards undercover work, putting together identities for him to use and leaving it at that. So he hasn’t really fought alongside people since he was a soldier, and those are days he doesn’t exactly look back on fondly.

It makes him wary about asking anyone to tag along. They seem like good people, which could be either a positive or negative depending on the situation, but trusting someone to watch his back is a bit much. Boomer and Peaches don’t count. Animals are straightforward. So long as you feed them and treat them right, they’ll be loyal. You won’t see an animal pretending at kindness and love only to turn around and rip your throat out.

“Nope, the only throats you’ll be ripping out are the throats of my enemies, right?” Rook tries to keep a wiggling Boomer still as he washes him in the shallow parts of a stream. The last fight had left his fur stained with blood and muck, which Rook is having a hell of a time cleaning away.

Dr Perkins sent him off with some dog shampoo once they finished up at Breakthrough Camp, after checking Boomer and Peaches over at his request. She’d been happy to do so considering the effort he’d put into getting one of those Judge wolves for her to study.

And fuck, Rook still feels bad for killing so many of them. Sure, he didn’t have much of a choice considering they’d been determined to get their teeth in him, their instincts twisted up by whatever the hell Jacob is doing to them. Usually they’d run if they got hurt, or just from gunshots going off nearby. These ones keep fighting even when they’re bleeding out, rabid and snarling with white-ringed eyes.

He hopes Dr Perkins figures out a way to help them. Rook’s been destroying those beacons that lure in normal wolves, but there’s more than he can get to if he wants to keep things on track. Might be the only solution is putting the Judges down. It’ll stop their suffering at least.

Peaches lets out a startled growl at the shoreline, where she’s been lounging by the clothes and weapons he left behind before wading into the water. Still got his shirt and pants on, but he took off most of the protective gear. The lack of weight makes him feel all floaty, which is fun when he’s doing his best to keep his balance every time Boomer makes an attempt to shove him over.

“You good?” There isn’t anyone around. They’re nowhere near the road, and the cliff’s overhang provides some cover from passing helicopters. A quick scan around doesn’t reveal any animals that’ve decided to wander over, either.

Peaches hisses and folds down into a crouch, back end wiggling as she stares right at Rook’s jacket. That takes the amusement out of the situation, and Rook stumbles to the shore to rescue his jacket. “No, no, don’t eat the jacket, I need that!”

He darts in front of it right before Peaches pounces. He catches the full weight of her on his chest, knocking him clean off his feet with a startled exhale as the air is knocked from his lungs. It leaves him dazed for a few seconds, blinking up at the blue sky. His view is interrupted by Peaches rubbing her face against his cheek, warbling faintly. Her paws press heavily on his chest, claws neatly tucked away.

“Good girl,” he wheezes, scratching under her chin.

When he finally escapes he picks his jacket up, trying to understand why she went to attack it. Then his phone starts vibrating.

Ah.

He eyes the screen, lap full of wet dog whilst Peaches does her best to catch herself one of the trouts splashing around in the stream. The sight of Faith’s name makes him raise his eyebrows before he answers.

“Hi, Faith,” he says neutrally.

_“Rook.”_ She sounds delighted to hear him answer, voice just as airy and bright as it was in the Bliss. Less echo-y though, so he manages to suppress the urge to chuck his phone into the river. “ _I was starting to think you’d never pick up!”_

“I was busy.”

She hums. _“Yes, I heard that you were in Jacob’s region. He’s very annoyed with you,”_ she tells him with a giggle.

“Good for him.”

His flat responses seem to get to her. _“I wanted to talk to you right away after we last spoke. I…I truly am sorry. The Father has made it clear to me that I shouldn’t have brought you to the Bliss without your consent.”_ The slight waver in her voice is audible over the phone. Whether it’s real is harder to tell. “ _I promise I won’t do it again.”_

“What makes you think your promise means anything to me?” He doesn’t say it cruelly. His hand is buried in Boomer’s fur, that wet dog smell hanging around him, and he’s watching Peaches come up sulkily from a failed dive. He’s wrung out from a long day and a hard fight, but it’s the pleasant sort of ache rather than the drag of exhaustion or injuries. All things considered, he’s about as at peace as he gets.

_“Please, Rook. You have to believe that the last thing I want is to hurt you.”_

“I don’t have to believe anything.” He sighs, a rough exhale that makes Boomer’s ears twitch. “But I believe that you’ll do anything Joseph says, and he’s smart enough to know I won’t react well to having Bliss used on me again.”

_“That’s good enough,”_ she says brightly. _“I’d like to invite you to a sermon the Father is having.”_

Rook blinks, wondering if he heard right. “You what?”

_“I want to show you that everything you think you know about us is wrong. We’ve never lied to you, Rook. There’s no need for us to be enemies, and the family we’re offering you is real. Let me show you that.”_

She’s trying hard, voice sweet like honey - or more appropriately, like Bliss flowers. Whatever effect she had on him in the Bliss is notably absent now. Here, she’s just another Seed trying to manipulate him.

But Rook is in a good mood. Still pissed about what he said when he last saw her, of course. But he also knows that if he lets himself keep getting angry over that, it’ll just put a neon sign over how much of a sore point parts of his past are. He can’t let himself have such an obvious weakness. When the Seeds do decide to use it against him, he needs to be prepared to brush it off.

So he doesn’t immediately hang up. Instead, he leans back against the tree behind him and considers how he can use this to his advantage. “And what am I getting out of this?”

Faith has got to know that any sane person wouldn’t waste time going to a sermon for no reason, especially one filled with their enemies who could use the chance to kill or capture them. She also doesn’t know it’s also the sort of thing Rook would totally do entirely on a whim.

_“Marshal Burke will be there. If you’re good, I’ll let you take him back with you.”_ She says it like it’s a trump card, an offer impossible to refuse.

And okay, sure, maybe it’s a fair assumption that Rook would give a shit about one of his fellow officers. They know he isn’t a real deputy, but he still worked with these people for a month, and is fighting against the ones who took them. They aren’t aware that he, well…pretty much entirely forgot about them, other than vague, distant plans of getting them back eventually.

So. Not the most tempting offer. Rook’s seen the broadcast of Burke with Faith whispering in his ear, his eyes dull and aimless as he apologises to the cultists and Joseph, tells them that he meant them no harm, that this shitshow is all Rook’s fault. Definitely Blissed out of his mind, and from what Rook’s heard prolonged and intensive use like that can be near impossible to come back from fully. There’ll always be the lingering doubt that Faith could get into his head again, so he’ll never be a useful ally.

However, he’s more than an ally here. He’s a trophy. The Seeds won him along with Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt whilst Rook escaped, and they’ve been put out on display to show everyone how complete their control is, how untouchable they are even by the people supposed to keep them in line. Whitehorse got away, so Burke is all Faith has left. If Rook gets him back, that leaves Faith’s control and image just a little more fragile, and puts a crack in the myth the Seeds have created.

“Alright, Faith. It’s a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand the real canon divergences start here. Those'll build up in some fun ways.
> 
> (add 'how animals behave' under the list of lacking realism)


	10. Chapter 10

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not kiddin’ here. This is in the top tier of shitty ideas. Like, I don’t think you could come up with a worse idea if you tried. Strollin’ into a camp with who knows how many peggies guarding the place, all with their sights set on you? Shit man, that’s just beggin’ for a bullet to the brain.”

“Yup.”

“Y’know-” The plane dips as Nick brings it in to land on the road near the jail. He’d grumbled about the lack of proper runaways anywhere nearby, but in a place as hilly as the Henbane, a stretch of flat road is rare enough by itself. “-for some reason I’ve got the feeling you ain’t listenin’ to a word I’m sayin’.”

“I’m listening. I’m just not changing my mind.”

“See, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Then why try talking me out of it?”

Nick’s been making a valiant attempt to do so the entire ride over. Almost makes Rook regret asking for the lift. The only reason he did so is because the sermon is this morning, and considering the call came yesterday afternoon, he doesn’t have much time to get down to the Henbane. Peaches and Boomer are left with Dr Perkins for the time being since he’s planning on heading straight back to the Whitetails after this, rather than subjecting them to hours of driving through the night when Rook didn’t trust himself not to drift off at the wheel.

Instead, he called Nick up. The man’s enthusiasm to blow up some peggies had certainly faded once he realised what Rook was actually planning to do. He should’ve just lied. Always easier that way.

“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to see your corpse strung up under a bridge?”

“Relax, that won’t happen. If the Seeds are gonna execute me you can bet it’ll be a hell of a lot more dramatic than that.”

“Somehow, that ain’t very reassurin’.”

Once the plane comes to a stop, Rook gives Nick’s shoulder a solid pat as he climbs out. “As much as it warms my cold, shrivelled heart to hear your concern, you shouldn’t worry so much. It’ll make your hair go grey, and d’you think Kim will want to be seen with a guy who looks like he’s nearing seventy?”

That earns him a hard shove which almost sends him sprawling into the dirt. Nick snickers from his place in the cockpit. “Fuck you. I could go bald and Kim would still think I’m the hottest shit she ever saw.”

“I don’t know, man.” He spins to walk backwards, gesturing to his own face. “Have you seen me? She might get real tempted if you come back looking like a geriatric.”

“You try anythin’ and she’d punch you right in that pretty boy mug of yours!” Nick hollers after him. “Try not to get yourself killed, you promised me we’d blow up John Seed’s stupid ass sign!”

“It’s a date!” Rook throws in a wink even though he’s far enough that Nick probably can’t see it. Then he turns back around, because yeah, walking backwards up a hill is just asking to trip.

He stumbles anyway under the force of Grace’s glare. She’s standing right outside the gates, arms crossed and a hard frown on her face, looking like she wants nothing more than to slap him upside the head.

“Heyyyy Grace.” Rook smiles innocently and keeps a decent distance between them.

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me,” she snaps. “Now, I don’t have the best impression of your self-preservation instincts, but this is going beyond even that low bar. One of Joseph Seed’s sermons, really?”

Rook lets the smile drop into something more sheepish. His annoyance at being repeatedly lectured is washed away by how weird it is to see people acting concerned. That’s the thing about being known by people - they start keeping track of how easily and gleefully he throws himself into danger, and come up with a picture that looks worrying to anyone sane. They don’t get that this is just how Rook is, and so far, it’s worked out for him.

“It’ll get the Marshal back?”

“In exchange for what? You?” She scoffs and shakes her head. “Helluva trade right there.”

Rook shrugs and leads the way inside the prison. “They just want to preach at me for a bit, see if they can get in my head. Then I’ll be on my way without a scratch on me with Burke in tow. Besides-” He pauses to grin at her. “-I’ve got you to watch my back, don’t I?”

She gives him a flat look. “Don’t matter how good a sharpshooter I am if a hundred peggies are surrounding the area.”

“C’mon, there’ll be like fifty at most. You could absolutely take them.”

Grace grabs his arm, forcing him to a halt. “You need to take this shit seriously, Rook. You could be walking straight into a trap, and Joseph Seed can do a lot worse than kill you outright.”

It’s the genuine worry there that makes Rook lose the cheery nonchalance. He turns to face her, smile grim but reassuring. “It’ll be fine. You and I both know the Seeds don’t want me dead. If they do change their tune and decide to kidnap me, I’ll get myself out.”

She scowls at him. “Keep talking like we’ll just be standing on the sidelines waiting for you to come back, and I’ll start getting real offended.”

“Alright, alright.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll sit around like a good damsel in distress until you storm the gates. Satisfied?”

She snorts and releases his arm to head inside. “Get your reckless ass in here. Sheriff wants to go over the plan. Flimsy piece of shit that it is,” she adds in a disdainful mutter.

Thankfully, Rook doesn’t get accosted by any more well-meaning people convinced he’s making a stupid decision. He does get plenty of ‘has someone checked him over for a head injury’ looks when Whitehorse tells his people about the upcoming sermon.

The plan is simple enough, circumstances not allowing for anything more complex. They’re sending in a couple dozen people alongside Rook to the meeting place, a clearing in the north of the Henbane across the lake from Joseph’s island. The cult forces are denser around there, making it easy for Joseph’s followers to storm the area if things get out of hand, discounting the ones they’re betting will already be there. Apparently it’s a common thing for Joseph to go out to see his people in different regions, inspiring them with his sermons and quelling any doubts. Less common is an invite being sent to the face of the Resistance.

Which, ha, that’s Rook now. What the shit.

He gets distracted looking at what’s clearly a re-purposed wanted poster. A couple weeks ago he spotted a few that used the photo from his driving licence, but recently they switched to a new one. It shows him in full combat gear, blood staining his sleeves and a rifle in his hands. It’s a decent shot, not the best quality but they’ve managed to get it looking like he’s facing the camera fully, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a satisfied half-smile and his gaze intent. Dangerous.

Rook feels like a complete fucking idiot for apparently missing the camera in whatever outpost this got taken. Sure, he hasn’t cared too much about getting picked up by them lately, but he should still notice them. God, he’s getting rusty. It’s going to be hell adjusting once this is all over.

But anyway, the poster. Because it sure isn’t a wanted poster anymore. No, instead someone’s plastered bold red letters - matching the fresh blood on his sleeves, actually - on it saying _The Resistance Needs You!_ And Rook just.

He can’t.

He starts laughing so hard there’s tears in his eyes. He hunches over, trying to catch his breath and utterly failing to stop cackling long enough to drag any air into his lungs. He waves off the bemused concern and, when he finally gets a hold of himself, fishes his phone out to snap a picture of it. Once people have stopped staring at him and he can do so discreetly, anyway.

_Look at this omhg im dying help me obiwankenobi youre my only ho_

Denise doesn’t take long to respond. _thats the funniest shit ive ever seen. the fuck are you getting up to??_

Another text comes in a second later. _also, hot damn_

_They definitely got my best angle. Murder._

_Your only angle u mean_

_Fuck you, I’m multifaceted as hell_

_your personality traits cn be boiled down to: kills people, constant need for entertainment, and drama queen. youre like a shark wth adhd_

_Excuse you, sharks have an undeserved reputation and barely kill anyone_

_unlike you, rite?_

_Right_

He slips the phone away when people start looking in his direction again. Luckily for Rook, he’s good at paying attention to multiple things at once, so he’s not blindsided by the abrupt scrutiny. Whitehorse just asked if Rook has anything he wants to add, and Rook nods as he steps forward.

“We’re going into this with the assumption that Joseph and Faith Seed will keep to their word. That means no firing at peggies unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He casts a stern look around the room, shifting to the solid stance his old commander favoured. His tone is an easy one to mimic, as familiar as if he saw man yesterday. “Don’t engage with them further than what’s impossible to avoid, and absolutely don’t try talking to them. I don’t want a fight breaking out when I’m trying to secure Marshal Burke’s release. Am I clear?”

There’s a scattering of hasty nods, even a few “yes, sir”s that leave people looking confused and vaguely embarrassed, like they aren’t sure why they said it.

Whitehorse is giving him an evaluating look, which Rook meets evenly as Grace’s eyes burn against the side of his face. “I know how precarious this situation is. It could easily be a trap, and I’m going to be surrounded by people who would gladly put a bullet in me. But you know as well as I do that the Seeds have some fucked up idea that they can convince me to join them, which means they’re not likely to kill me. Neither John nor Faith Seed took the opportunity when they had it.” He lets a sharp smile grow on his face. “And I’m going to make them regret it.”

No one speaks for a moment. Then, Whitehorse sighs heavily as a grim smile crosses his face. “Well said. If there’s nothin’ else, we’ll move out in half an hour. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

People filter out, leaving just Rook and Whitehorse. Whitehorse casts him a bleak glance. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance that was for show, and you’ll consider backin’ out?”

Rook’s apologetic smile is enough of an answer.

“We can’t afford to lose you, Rook.” Whitehorse sighs again. “You’ve managed to turn things around here. I’m not blind, either. I know you aren’t what you say you are.”

Rook relaxes his shoulders, tilts his weight to his right leg - unbalances himself, less of a threat - and keeps his expression in the same friendly mask. “That so?”

“What kind of rookie could do the shit you get up to and come out with barely a scratch on him?” Whitehorse shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. All I care about is the fact you’re doin’ good work. But if Joseph Seed gets his hands on you, I don’t like our chances.”

And hell, if that isn’t gratifying to hear. If he’s going to be tossed around the county like the Resistance’s very own attack dog, it’s nice to at least be recognised as playing a huge role in how this shitshow is going to turn out. Rook doesn’t think he’s overly prideful, but he’s _good_ at this. He knows how to kill, how to take down strongholds and move on before the enemy can get their shit together and track him down. He knows how to fight a war like this, how to turn his skills into taking apart a large, sprawling operation, even if he’s deliberately focused on small victories rather than doing the sensible thing and cutting off the head of the snake.

He doesn’t need recognition, never has. Gave up on getting that a long time ago. Doesn’t mean he can’t revel in being able to influence the world around him to such an extent. Who wouldn’t love that feeling of control? Of knowing that your every choice and action can have such an impact?

If Rook were a shittier person, he could leverage that power against the Resistance. They’ve made him too important, become too reliant already, and people like Whitehorse know it. There isn’t a lot they could deny him if he got demanding. The only part of the Resistance he hasn’t much associated with is the Whitetail Militia, and they’re on their last legs by the sounds of it. Rook will be heading back up there next, and it’s a safe bet that even if they can put up a fight themselves, the same pattern of sending Rook off to do their dirty work will repeat.

Rook didn’t intend to earn this influence, and he won’t use it unless he has to, but damn does it feel nice to have.

(When he was a teenager control was the only thing he wanted for years, desperately sought in any way he could, because there was nothing else for him. Affection, kindness - he wasn’t allowed that.

But control? That, he could take.)

“You always such a pessimist?” Rook’s mouth tilts into a small grin, serious enough that it takes the edge off his words, stops them from being mocking. “Give me a little credit, here. I wouldn’t walk into a situation I didn’t think I could get out of.”

“Suppose I’ll have to believe you. There isn’t any other choice, not if we want the Marshal back.” Whitehorse doesn’t sound as enthusiastic about that as he could. Guess Rook isn’t the only one without much fondness for Burke.

Whitehorse _had_ warned him repeatedly about Joseph, and Rook still can’t believe they went in with just the five of them against over a thousand faithful. Ignorance isn’t much of an excuse when various agencies have been watching Joseph since he was back in Georgia.

Rook couldn’t be happier with the way things turned out. Their fuck up is his gain, and boy, is he making the most of it.

* * *

The drive out to the meeting spot is spent in silence, the people around him tense as they do last minute checks. Reminds him of that fateful helicopter ride.

Like then, he isn’t wearing all the protective gear he usually does. It’s something he deliberated over, how to present himself for this little meet up. What angle he’s going to play. His interactions with Joseph have been- well, all over the place to be honest. Hostile and friendly, obstinate and willing to listen, quiet and chatty. Unpredictable. And Rook likes to think he rarely does what’s expected (what’s easy to anticipate and react to), so he wants to keep that up.

So he’s left behind his bulletproof plating, ballistic cloth, guns and knives (apart from the ones tucked into ankle holsters). Instead he’s wearing a soft blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and some dark jeans which only have a couple small rips in them, scrounged up by a very confused Resistance member. He washed up and dragged a brush through his hair, pulled it back into a short ponytail with the errant strands held back by John’s sunglasses set atop his head. Still got his combat boots on because it’s almost impossible to find comfortable shoes that fit, but after a shave and a change in clothes, he looks completely different from his photo in the wanted - and recruitment - posters.

It makes for a disorienting image for anyone who knows who he is. Which is the idea.

And damn, if it isn’t funny to see people double-take at the sight of him. Grace had just given him an utterly unimpressed look once the surprise passed, and dryly asked if he was done prettying himself up for his date. In retaliation he fluttered his eyelashes and asked if his ass looked fat in these jeans. That earned him a hard shove to his shoulder, but she looked reluctantly amused whilst doing it, which he’s counting as a win.

It’s late morning by the time they arrive. The make-shift convoy of theirs slows when the one in the lead spots the cultists up ahead, calling a warning through the radios. It has the people around him straightening up, hands on their guns. Rook smooths down a couple of wrinkles in his shirt and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. The action earns him a glare from Grace.

Hey, it isn’t like Rook feels completely fine going in without weapons and protection. He’s used to being fully geared up, ready to take on anything, and now he’s back to civvies. He isn’t a fan of being vulnerable, never has been, and if something does go wrong he doesn’t have much faith in the Resistance pulling through for him.

But Rook is presenting an image here. He wants them to see how completely unafraid he is, how he’s strolling in without even a hint of concern over what Joseph and his people could do to him. He wants them to realise how little power they have over him.

When the car rolls to a stop, Rook is the first one out.

They’re at the edge of the treeline, white trucks clustered around with more than one cultist manning a turret aimed in their direction. Not just regular cultists either; the red ski masks and grey jackets distinguish several as members of the Chosen, even if their better equipment hadn’t given them away. No Angels milling about, at least. Maybe because they can’t be trusted to not attack without provocation.

No one’s aiming at Rook and the Resistance quite yet, but they’re all ready to do so at a moment’s notice. The tension ramps up as his own people climb out of their cars, wariness putting a strain on their movements already, everyone prepared for a fight to break out at a moment’s notice.

So Rook beams and waves at the cultists. “Hi there! I’m here to see Joseph, he around?”

No one speaks, and the closest cultists are straight up gaping at him. Well trained enough not to loosen their hold on their weapons, though.

The silence is broken by Faith’s appearance as she emerges from the trees. She falters just briefly when she catches sight of him, but recovers quickly. “Rook! You made it!” She looks genuinely excited, and there’s a heap of relief there too. If Rook hadn’t shown up, he bets Joseph wouldn’t be happy with her.

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

She gets closer, brushing past the cultists who move aside deferentially. A marked difference from the way the Resistance tense up further when she steps in front of Rook, like they think she’s going to Bliss him up and turn him into her mind-controlled slave at a moment’s notice.

Instead she offers her hands out to him expectantly, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “The Father was certain you would keep your word. He knows you much better than I do.” Her smile widens. “But I would like to, very much so.”

Rook doesn’t need to look at the people beside him to know they don’t like the sound of that. Still, it doesn’t stop Rook from taking Faith’s hands and smiling back, showing nothing of the flash of rippling anger that churns under his skin at the touch.

“Maybe we’ll have time for that today, after the sermon.” He tilts his head and casts his gaze around, eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t see the Marshal anywhere. Was he unable to make it?”

He doesn’t put any threat or warning behind his words, but Faith responds as if he did. Her smile shrinks and while she doesn’t pull away, her shoulders draw up just slightly. “He’s here. You understand that I can’t let you see him right away, don’t you? Not until you’ve spoken with the Father.”

Oh, so it’s changed from attending a sermon to actively talking to Joseph? Bit quick to be introducing last minute changes to the schedule. Would have a more cautious guy calling it all off.

Because Rook doesn’t have a cautious bone in his body, he shrugs. “I get it. Can’t have me running off, right?”

Faith evidently decides to dismiss his comment. “Come with me, the Father is waiting close by.” She pulls on his hands, and it holds none of the impossible force that it did in the Bliss. If he wanted, it’d be easy to ignore it entirely.

So he remains still. “How far away?”

Impatience flickers across her face, gone in the next second. “Just in the clearing up ahead, through the trees.” She giggles airily. “You don’t need to worry. The faithful won’t harm you or your friends. They’re only here to keep everyone safe - there’s bears in these woods, don’t you know?”

The jab pulls a brief, genuine grin from him. Maybe the bear he’d seen before she grabbed him was real, then. Beneath all that sickly sweetness, Faith’s got some bite. “Then you won’t mind if my people set up watch, too? Just in case a whole bunch of bears show up.”

Faith frowns faintly, gaze shifting to the Resistance members with thinly veiled dislike. “As long as they promise not to cause a disruption.”

He glances to Tracey. Whitehorse reluctantly stayed behind at the jail, because if this is a trap the Resistance doesn’t want to risk losing several of their leaders, so Tracey has stepped up in his stead. She meets his gaze, eyes narrowed and reluctance clear even before he says anything.

“They’ll be on their best behaviour. Won’t they?”

Tracey jerks her head in a nod. She’ll keep the rest under control. Everyone here has a grudge against the cultists, have lost at least one person to them, seen their comrades turned into Angels and been forced to put them down. And Tracey? She has a bigger cause for a grudge than most. Rook hadn’t been sure about having her here at all, with her past in the cult and as Faith’s - then Rachel Jessop’s - friend. But Whitehorse was certain that she’d keep herself in check, and it isn’t like Rook is spoiled with options here.

This time when Faith pulls at his hands, Rook lets her draw him forward. She gives him a pleased smile and keeps a hold of one hand as she guides him up a dirt path leading into the trees.

“You won’t regret this,” she assures him, her light footsteps making her dress flare. She isn’t barefoot like she was in the Bliss and the church, thin white ballet shoes covering her feet. Not the most practical, but better protection than nothing at all. “Even those who fight against us seek salvation. You’re proof of that. We all need guidance in times like these.”

“And Joseph is the best source of that?” He raises an eyebrow at her, amusement lightening his tone.

“Of course.” Rook catches a glimpse of a sniper perched on up on a ledge, nothing more than a glint reflecting off the sight. Trained carefully on him, he’s betting. “Time and time again, the Father offers his hand to the lost and wounded and guides them to the light. He gives them purpose, shows them a world beyond the chains that strangle them, one where they can be free.”

Her grip on his hand tightens, and she looks at him earnestly. “Where _you_ can be free. You only have to listen, and trust in him. That’s all he asks.”

“That’s all, huh?” As if it’s easy to trust in someone, to give your all to them with the expectation of nothing in return. Not even getting to the fact that they’re talking about a doomsday cult leader here.

“You’ll understand once you speak with him. All we ask is that you consider his message without judgement, without the influence of the lies you’ve been told. See us for who we truly are.”

All he sees is people broken by a world that didn’t give a shit about them. People who took those brittle, jagged pieces and created something that could lash out against anything and everything that could ever hurt them again. Never mind if it makes them any happier, if the people they hurt deserve it. Never mind that it’ll only destroy them in the end.

It’s with this tired thought in mind that Rook steps out into the clearing.


	11. Chapter 11

There are several people already in the clearing, most sat in the grass around Joseph - who’s once more shirtless. At least it’s a sunny day this time rather than the middle of the night. He’s speaking with them, that much Rook can tell despite not being able to make out the words from here. Preaching, most likely. But Joseph isn’t the first person Rook focuses on. No, that dubious honour goes to his brother.

John Seed stands close to the treeline, only a few metres from Rook and Faith. The immaculate appearance is expected by this point. He’s switched out his jeans for black slacks, and this vest looks a higher quality with its shiny silver buttons. No sunglasses this time, and not a hair out of place.

He meets Rook’s questioning look, a flicker of nervousness flashing across his face before it’s replaced with a smirk. Then his gaze drags down Rook’s body, taking in his clothes and darting back up, stuck on the sunglasses settled on Rook’s head. The sight halts his approach, confident smirk faltering.

What the hell is John doing here? Rook resists the urge to shoot Faith a glare. She sure didn’t think to mention that they’d be three-quarters of the way to a family reunion.

As if she hears his thoughts, Faith draws his arm to her chest in a loose but distinctly possessive embrace. Rook fights down any tension, fingers twitching just slightly. “When John heard you were coming, he…insisted on attending. I can tell him to leave, if you like.” And she does genuinely sound like she’d love to tell John to fuck off. Trouble in paradise?

“Now, now, Faith.” John is evidently close enough to hear the comment, judging by the sharp look he directs her way. “Let’s not argue in front of our guest. We want to create a good impression, don’t we? After your first encounter went so…poorly.”

The charming smile he gives Rook is one he could see John using before all this started. Back when he couldn’t use torture to get people to do and say what he wants. There isn’t a single flaw in it, close enough to genuine to fool Rook if he’d never, y’know, been threatened by John before. “It’s been a while, Rook. I had expected to see you sooner than this.”

Rook raises his eyebrows. “We spoke like, five days ago.”

“Plenty of time for you to make your way to the valley. Why, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were avoiding the talk you promised me.” And there it is, the jagged edge which creeps into John’s words. Much more natural.

“Haven’t you heard?” Faith interjects, leaning into Rook’s arm. There’s barely any weight to her; he could probably carry her and not even feel the difference. “Rook’s been busy in Jacob’s territory. I can’t imagine he has much time to chat,” she says airily.

“Yes,” John draws the word out, his eyes narrowing. More at Faith than Rook, which is…weird. “I heard.”

“I’m surprised I managed to catch him at all, in fact!” She turns a wide, sweet smile up at Rook. “I really wasn’t sure if you’d be able to make it, since I only asked you yesterday. I thought I might have left it a little late. But you’re here, right on time.” She laughs playfully. “Nothing can stop you when you want to get somewhere quickly, hmm?”

Are they using him to make jabs at each other? They totally _are._

Before anyone can get really riled up, Joseph (unfortunately) intervenes.

“Rook,” he says his name with an undeserved warmth and familiarity, John and Faith immediately losing the undercurrents of hostility at his approach. Faith releases his arm and shifts a small step away, movements as unobtrusive as possible. Joseph has them well trained. “You encountered no trouble getting here, I trust?”

Speaking of, the skies and roads had been suspiciously clear of cultists since he agreed to Faith’s invite. “Yeah, no issues on that front.”

Joseph wastes no time in ushering him over to where the cultists are seated, and in short order Rook finds himself cross-legged in the grass. Faith settles beside him with her skirt tucked neatly under her, whilst John perches on a flat rock nearby. It’s-

Rook is a bit bewildered, to be honest. It only just hits him how fucking weird this situation is. He’s been killing cultists left and right, blowing up their structures and generally being a pain in their ass, and now they’re sat around like they’re about to start making flower crowns. The cultists near him aren’t even heavily armed, meeting his glances with friendly smiles and quiet greetings from those closest to him.

Well. The expected reaction would be to tense up, get all obstinate and hostile, right? So Rook does the opposite. He smiles back, shakes hands with a couple of them and asks their names. The responses he gets are only a little stilted by surprise. Joseph picked well; none of them are overtly afraid or wary, completely certain that they’re safe, and don’t show even a hint of anger. As if Rook doesn’t regularly kill their people with his bare hands.

Hell, they didn’t even frisk him on his way in. Could mean they buy into his impression of being unarmed. Or they could be confident that one of their snipers will take him out if he makes a threatening move.

Wouldn’t do much good if Rook had explosives on him, though. Take out three Seeds, including the leader himself, and leave just Jacob for the Resistance to throw themselves against. Rook’s sacrifice would be worth it, even considering his value. Good thing that Rook doesn’t plan on killing them yet.

Joseph moves to stand within the circle of his loyal followers - and Rook - and begins his sermon. Rook wonders if it gives him a kick to look down on them all, preaching from on high even as he plays at humbling himself, what with the lack of fancy garments or, y’know, a shirt. That’s got to be distracting, tattoos and scars and wiry muscle on display. He wore a shirt during the video where he gouged a man’s eyes out, so maybe this isn’t a regular thing.

“What do we fight for?” Joseph begins solemnly. “It’s a question we often ask ourselves, but rarely can a satisfying answer be found. We tell ourselves that we fight for freedom. For the chance to be part of something, to become more than what we are alone. We fight against those who would harm us, who would take all that we have for themselves. We fight because we have no other choice.”

Well, that’s pointed. Kind of inadvertently shows just how little Joseph understands Rook, too.

“There is always a choice. There is a path set before each and every one of us, and we can choose to walk it, or be led astray. God has given us this opportunity to prove ourselves to Him. To show Him that we will not falter, we will not allow doubt to poison our souls like it has so many before us. Our cause is _righteous,_ and we will not be swayed from it.”

He speaks more of the trials set before them, the suffering necessary to take their place in Eden. Of the need to come together in these harsh times, to find strength in the bonds between brothers and sisters, and the knowledge that they are following God’s will. His followers watch him reverently, hanging onto his every word, and in this Faith and John are no different. Just as absorbed, as certain that everything Joseph says is the only truth worth listening to.

And Rook does listen, registers each word and picks it apart. He already knew that Joseph was a good speaker, his presence demanding attention as he speaks with an easy charisma. All the Seeds have that quality to them, but with Joseph there’s a quiet weight to it. A certainty.

Up until this point Joseph has been focusing on his followers. Now, his unblinking gaze settles squarely on Rook. “We do not face the times ahead alone. Our family is strong, and when the end comes we will be ready for it. The world is on the brink, toeing the line of its own destruction, but we are prepared. We see what’s coming. We’ve watched, and waited, and finally acted when the time was right.”

He steps closer, and Rook has to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. “The breaking of the first seal has set us on a course we cannot escape. There is nothing left for us in the world outside our borders, nothing worth saving. The only choice which remains is whether you will join the one fight that matters. The one for our survival.”

But it isn’t about survival, not even close.

Joseph, at the core of him, desperately wants to be _right_. He needs people to believe him, believe _in_ him, because otherwise what does he have to show for the end he’s so sure is coming? An image in his mind, and a world that tells him he’s crazy?

And Rook abruptly understands that he isn’t a challenge to Joseph. No, it’s more than that. If Joseph can convince Rook, if he can take the man who unflinchingly stands against him and turn him into a believer - Rook would be _proof_ that Joseph has been right all along. Proof that God is on his side, and will bring even his most determined enemies to their knees. Proof that everything he’s done is justified.

And that’s a lot of power to hand someone like Rook.

The sermon winds to a close, Rook distracted by the realisation. It’s built up from each moment from his arrival in the church up until now. From every conversation before now, the injection of Joseph’s presence over the phone calls and his willingness to speak about Eden’s Gate and the future he sees. By John’s rapid vacillations between different methods of attempting to convert Rook, and Faith’s gentle smiles and determination for him to see he needs Joseph’s guidance.

Joseph brought him here to show Rook why he should stop fighting him. Instead he’s revealed that Rook could _keep_ fighting him, keep ruining everything he’s built, and it’s unlikely he could ever bring himself to kill Rook.

Because doing that would mean admitting there’s a chance, however small, that he could be wrong.

* * *

Afterwards, Joseph leads him away from his followers and siblings into the shade of a tree. He’s watching Rook closely, the intensity during his sermon dialled back to its usual level. At least, Rook assumes it’s what’s usual for Joseph, considering he’s only been around the man three times. Feels like it should be more than that.

“That was quite the speech,” Rook comments lightly, thumbs hooked in his jean pockets. He can feel the numerous sets of eyes on them. For all that the cultists are talking amongst themselves, Faith fluttering between groups while John speaks with a young woman, he knows that their attention rarely drifts from him and Joseph.

The Father and the Sinner. Quite the dynamic duo.

“Thank you.” The tone Joseph uses now is different from the one during the speech. Less weight to it, quieter, yet just as impossible to ignore. “I’m glad you decided to come. I know it can’t have been an easy decision to make, trusting that this was not a trap.”

“I figure if you really wanted to get your hands on me, there are better ways to do it.” He doesn’t throw in a wink, but only just. Denise would be disappointed in him. “Besides, I was curious what you had to say. Your followers have such high opinions of you, I wanted to see if it’s founded in anything concrete.”

Like his statue. Amanda would slap him for that one.

“I imagine you’re referring to the boy you saved from a cougar?”

“Yeah, him.” Rook grins as he recalls the meeting. “How’s the kid doing? John didn’t chew him out too badly, did he?” Or torture him. That sounds more like John.

“Considering he accomplished his task of finding you, John saw no need to reprimand him.” The corners of Joseph’s mouth pull up in a slow smile. “He’s since chosen a name.”

“Oh?”

“He goes by Michael, now.” There’s definite amusement when Joseph looks at him. “Meeting you had quite the impact.”

He stares. The kid…named himself after Rook?

Rook’s lips twitch, and then he’s smothering laughter against his palm. He’s just- the kid named himself after the guy trying to destroy the cult? He met _Rook,_ and decided that hey, this seems like a good person to name himself after?

He’s still wheezing a little when he tries to speak. “Oh man, I- I wish I could’ve seen John’s _face._ You can’t tell me he didn’t blow up over it, c’mon, be real with me here.”

Joseph looks at Rook as if he isn’t quite sure what to make of him. “He wasn’t pleased, no. But this isn’t a choice any of us would try to influence. Do you know the meaning behind the name?”

Rook shakes his head, still biting back errant chuckles. It wasn’t a name he put too much thought into. Amanda was the one who suggested it, after a scroll through ‘Babynames.org’. Rook hadn’t killed anyone called Michael recently, so he went with it.

“The name Michael means ‘who is like God?’” Oh boy, Rook should’ve expected something like that. Why else would Joseph bring it up? “It’s also the name of an archangel. A protector.”

“Any chance he plays a role in the Book of Revelation?”

“Yes.” There’s a curious tilt to Joseph’s head as he regards him. “He’s portrayed as the leader of Heaven’s armies in the war against Satan. It’s why he’s considered the patron saint of soldiers.”

Rook bites the corner of his lower lip and fails to smother a wry grin. “Interesting coincidence.”

“Coincidence,” Joseph echoes doubtingly. “Was it coincidence that brought you here, that led to you being one of the deputies chosen to arrest me? You, of all people.”

“You want an honest answer to that?” Rook leans in and smirks. “It was a whim. I was bored, and I thought that playing at deputy would be a good way to pass the time.”

“You’re here for a reason.” Joseph evidently decides to steamroll right over that response. The Seeds do that a lot, jeez. “Every choice, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, has led you to where you are today. And now you’re at a crossroads.”

Rook raises an eyebrow. “The decision on whether to ‘follow the path’, right?”

“I admit, I half-expected an outburst from you at some point during the sermon. You have never hesitated to voice your objections before.” _Or now,_ Joseph seems to imply.

“You brought me here to listen, didn’t you?” If he knew what was going on in Rook’s head during the sermon - well, he’d regret that decision. Psychoanalysis probably wasn’t his intended result.

“I brought you here to show you that we are not enemies.”

Rook knows to expect it when Joseph closes the distance.

There’s a complete lack of hesitation as Joseph places a calloused hand against Rook’s cheek, the other settling at the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding a little under the shirt collar to press against skin. Rook stills, clamping down on the automatic desire to lash out, just as he did when Faith took his arm.

Joseph is as close to him as he was at the river, but this time there’s nothing to distract Rook from his fervent gaze. “To show you that I am _looking_ at you, and I want you to join my family.”

_If I’d never stood against him, never started to fight your cult and burn your operations to the ground…Would he have even looked at me?_

The words Rook said to Faith ring through his head, a clarity to them that they’d lacked until now. They really will use everything they can against him, won’t they? He can admire that ruthlessness. Almost enough to dull his annoyance at having the lie of family thrown at him over and over again, as if they think if they repeat it often enough, eventually he’ll fall for it.

“You can look all you like, but you don’t see a damn thing.” Rook gives a hard smile, his eyes cold. “You think you understand me and you couldn’t be more wrong.”

He lifts his hands to mimic Joseph’s hold, feels the tension that rises under his palm on Joseph’s shoulder, for all that his expression doesn’t waver. Rook’s sure that every cultist gun in the area is lined up with his head, fingers settled on triggers. He doesn’t care.

The smart thing to do would be to back off. To pretend he’s considering what Joseph’s said, play along until he’s allowed to leave with Burke. But Rook has never been accused of doing the smart thing when there’s a much more interesting option available.

“I see you, Joseph.” His voice softens, words meant for Joseph’s ears only, not the people watching them or the ones hidden in the trees. “I see everything you have to offer, and I don’t want it.” Rook’s thumb brushes against Joseph’s neck, where he can feel his pulse jump. “I don’t want _you.”_

Make it personal. Make it so it isn’t about the cult, about Joseph’s beliefs - make it about _him._ Everything else would be easy to keep a distance from. But this? This adds a sting that Joseph won’t be expecting. One which will make it all the harder to draw away and see things objectively.

If Rook is gonna be tangled in this, dragged into the mind games the Seeds feel like playing? They’ll get the same treatment.

(Even now, so early in the game, he knows he’d sooner drown them than let them go.)

“Why?” It almost seems like Joseph doesn’t intend to ask, the question abrupt as it leaves his lips. His eyes are fractionally wider now, but still just as searching. More so, even.

It’s a good question. Because it isn’t that Rook wants nothing to do with Joseph. He stands by his thought on the day they met, that Joseph was the most interesting thing to happen to him in ages. But interest isn’t the same as _want._

“You haven’t given me any reason to. You talk about the end of the world, about sins and salvation, and you don’t understand that none of it matters to me. I don’t care about dying. I don’t care about what comes after, if I’ll end up in Hell or if there’s nothing at all. I don’t care if I survive this, or if it’s the fight that finally kills me.” He laughs faintly. “I don’t even care about any of the fucked up shit you’ve done.”

“Then what _do_ you care about?”

Control. Strength. The ability to defend himself, to stop anyone from ever hurting him again. Entertainment, anything that forces him to keep moving, to never stop and think for longer than he can handle.

Worn leather gloves. Old Westerns. Boomer and Peaches.

Denise. Oliver and Amanda.

Rook doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he leans in and presses his forehead to Joseph’s, feels warm breath against his skin. “What makes you think you’ve earned an answer to that?”

The question is quiet but sincere. They demand answers, demand to _know_ him. They don’t understand that he’s been given no reason to trust them with that information. They don’t see that whatever they think he wants - and even if, on some level, they’re right - it doesn’t matter. Rook has chosen a course for himself, and empty promises won’t divert him from it.

It’s all a game, one that Rook is going to win. He’ll drag it out for as long as he can, make the most of his current interest before it burns out like it always does. Relish every second of fighting and each challenge thrown his way. The Seeds will never be able to offer him something worth more than that.

He pulls away and steps back before Joseph can form a response.

“Where’s Burke, Joseph?” Drawing back all his sharp edges takes a few seconds, each little adjustment in his body language steadying the flow of heat under his skin and allowing his expression to shift to one of idle boredom. Dismissal.

And it’s that which has Joseph’s jaw clenching once he’s regained his bearings. It doesn’t last long, smoothed out with practised ease until he’s looking at Rook with a disappointed sort of patience. The only lingering hint that he’s rattled is the way he grips the rosary hanging from his wrist, knuckles white.

“The Marshal will be returned to you once we have finished speaking. I will keep my word, I assure you.”

“Prove it. Prove to me how much your word means, and let me walk out of here with Burke.” Rook shrugs loosely, unconcerned. “Because honestly? Right now, your word means a lot less than you think it does.”

Joseph’s eyes narrow, just slightly. “If that’s what it takes to earn your trust.” He raises a hand, and within seconds Burke is being brought out into the clearing.

Burke- doesn’t look great. His expression is dazed, steps steady but guided entirely by the cultist beside him. He’s in his uniform, and it must’ve been cleaned since the mad chase and dive into the river because there isn’t a speck of muck on it. Any damage is entirely internal.

“How much Bliss did you give him?” Rook mutters as he watches Burke’s approach. Burke definitely won’t be any use if this is permanent. Hell, even if it isn’t, Rook wouldn’t trust Burke with the responsibility of a pet goldfish. Things were always going to go to shit once they landed in Joseph’s compound, but it would’ve gone a whole lot differently if they’d been adequately prepared. If Burke had a proper team with him…Well, Rook can’t imagine that Joseph’s forces would be as secure in their hold on the county as they are. For now.

“Only enough to keep him from being a danger to us.” Joseph is watching Rook carefully. Must be remembering how much Rook hates Bliss.

Rook grins, and it isn’t the least bit friendly. “Just in case you’re wondering? Shit like that isn’t helping our trust issues any.”

Then he turns his back on Joseph and goes to fetch Burke from his guard. Time to make a hasty exit before someone’s trigger finger gets itchy.

* * *

Surprisingly, Rook doesn’t get accosted as he leads Burke back towards the Resistance convoy. Joseph must say something to John and Faith because neither comes over to him, and the cultists keep a watchful distance. Rook is very aware of the easy target he makes right now, and he refuses to let anyone know it bothers him, walking with his head held high and humming idly until they reach the road.

The second they do, Resistance members surround them. A couple take Burke off his hands and then Grace is there, jabbing a finger at his chest. “What the _hell_ was going on in that thick skull of yours when you decided to get handsy with Joseph Seed?”

“Hey, he did it first,” Rook points out defensively.

“The fact you think that’s a reasonable excuse makes me wonder how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”

“Dumb luck, mostly.” Because yeah, Rook really should be dead by now. He’s just weirdly good at not dying when he’s supposed to.

How fortunate.

Grace sighs. “Get in the damn car, Rook.”

Rook gets in the damn car.

The whole drive back, no one can meet his eyes for long except Grace, who - after a particularly judgemental look - decides to ignore him in favour of the window. He’s glad no one tries to talk to him, though. Gives him a chance to digest all…that.

Whatever Joseph intended to show him, he didn’t succeed. Rook is no more tempted to join the cult than he was when he woke up this morning. If anything, he’s more settled in the knowledge that they don’t have anything he could want. As interesting as the Seeds are, they’ve never given him a reason to see them as anything more than a fun, temporary challenge.

And, quietly, he can’t help but feel disappointed by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph's dialogue really is the toughest to write lol, hopefully the general feel of it is close enough. If not, eh put it down as OOC.


	12. Chapter 12

Debriefing with Whitehorse is a fun experience.

No one seems to quite know how to respond when Grace describes what went on in the clearing. By that, he means the fact that people saw Rook laughing with Joseph Seed, as well as the lack of personal space which Rook went a step further in reciprocating. They look at him for some sort of explanation, to which Rook shrugs and says it was to get his point across.

“What point is that?” Whitehorse asks warily. They’re watching him carefully now, like they honestly believe Rook might be in danger of falling under Joseph’s thrall or some shit like that.

He doesn’t bother to hide how little that impresses him. Picks out an answer that’ll satisfy them, even if it’s far from the whole truth. Says he was proving he wasn’t scared of Joseph, that he wasn’t going to let himself be pushed around by him. Doesn’t say how good it felt to see Joseph surprised, feathers ruffled by Rook’s actions.

Whitehorse lets it go after that. The focus shifts to Burke, Dr Lindsey giving them a rundown on his condition. He’s been heavily under the influence of Bliss for weeks now, giving Rook an idea of how badly it can fuck with your mind. Nothing more than a brainless puppet to Faith’s will…And now, it isn’t going to be easy getting him back to normal. If it’s even possible.

“I ever end up in that sort of state, shoot me,” he says to Grace as they head towards the gates. “Gimme a chance to recover, sure, but if it’s permanent…” Belatedly, it occurs to him that might be a bit insensitive to say.

But Grace snorts and gives a short nod. “So long as you do the same for me.”

“Deal.”

They part at the gates, Grace headed for the valley while Rook makes his way back to the Whitetails. She doesn’t let him escape without one last demand that he not get himself killed doing “whatever stupid, reckless shit you throw yourself into next”.

As if Rook does that all the time, c’mon.

* * *

Leaping off the edge of a cliff, Rook admits that Grace may have had a point.

He lets himself drop, the world blurring around him. He’s deafened by the air rushing past his head, goggles keeping the stinging wind from his eyes, arms at his sides to make his body as streamlined as possible. The ground comes up fast, jagged rocks stark against the river nearby - but too far for him to land in. Even if he could, he’d be lucky to walk away from this with anything less than broken bones.

He throws his arms out at the last possible second. The wingsuit catches and turns his descent into a glide, the force of it sending him into a wild spin. A giddy laugh escapes him and he gives an exhilarated yell as he hurtles down the sloping valley. Slight shifts of his body keep him from hitting any of the trees, and he brings his arms in tight whenever he wants to drop a bit and build some momentum.

Landing is the hardest part of it all. Still going too fast to stop safely, he raises his arms to catch more of the air, the drag gradually slowing him even as it throws him up higher. Then, because Rook is a fucking showoff, he flips himself over and does a swan dive into the river. Perfect form, just like his instructor taught him.

Of course, his audience consists of some startled ducks and a stunned fisherman who’s just been hit by the splash Rook made. He’s still gaping at Rook when Boomer comes charging through the trees, barking excitedly. Rook drags himself to shore and gives Boomer all the pets he deserves, aiming a grin at the fisherman.

“Morning!” he says brightly.

“…Good morning.”

“Nice day, huh? Think the weather will hold up?”

“If there’s any luck,” comes the stilted response. He goes back to wide-eyed staring when Peaches lopes out of the woods, looking exceedingly annoyed that he made her run all the way back down here.

The sight makes warmth bubble in his chest. He’s gotten kind of bogged down lately, only really focusing on the cult and forgetting that there’s plenty of fun he can have in Hope County that doesn’t involve the Seeds. Rook has been an adrenaline junkie for as long as he can remember, from clambering up buildings and barely catching at ledges, to throwing himself into every extreme sport he could try his hand at.

The high of it buzzes through his veins, leaves him chipper and bouncing for the rest of the day. An apparently unnerving sight, going by the looks he gets from the unfortunate cultists he runs into. Three Chosen, and one regular guy with better protection than most. Doesn’t look like they were deliberately hunting him - not going by the surprised expression of the unmasked man.

Rather than killing them all straight off, Rook is in the mood to draw things out a bit. Doesn’t use guns, and throws theirs aside as soon as he gets in close, snaps their bows and leaves them to just their knives and fists to depend on. A sharp whistle keeps Boomer and Peaches back, crouched low in the bushes and watching the road as the men warily circle him.

Rook slides into a mock martial arts stance, raising one hand and gesturing the men in. “Come and get me,” he challenges with utmost seriousness, a manic grin playing on his lips. The unmasked cultist looks like he wishes he’d run away when he had the chance.

The Chosen don’t hesitate, though. Rook dodges a knife slashing towards his face, and drives his shoulder into the man’s sternum, tossing him flat on his back. The other swings his fist, easily knocked aside and then Rook’s got a grip on his arm, dragging him in and throwing him into the dirt.

A hand grabs at the back of his shirt. This one’s bigger than the others, able to actually pull Rook back a step - and then Rook drops all his weight back, unbalancing the man and giving Rook the opportunity to twist, curl his fingers into the exposed eyes and dig deep.

The scream lasts a brief second before Rook snaps his neck.

The fourth? Well, he does the smart thing and stays the fuck away from Rook. Though he does flinch when Rook kicks the knees out from one of the Chosen as he tries to stand, then stomps down on his comrade's throat. His windpipe collapses under the force and makes the man jerk. “C’mon, can't you do better than that?”

The first guy stumbles to his feet, sleeve bloody where he cut himself with his own knife on the way down. Makes his fingers slick with blood, so it isn’t hard to knock the knife out of his hands. The man’s got more than one, snatches it from his belt and lunges at Rook, a barely contained desperation building in his eyes.

One of the cultists has their radio on, and Rook can hear Jacob’s broadcast playing over it. The speech is familiar by now; a criticism of the lack of strength in the modern age, how the tools of survival have fallen to the wayside and the weak preside over the strong. How wrong the world is, how Jacob will return it to its natural order-

And Rook is laughing as he knocks a knife aside, lets it scrape up against his arm guard. Then he’s surging close, too fast for the man to draw away from his failed attack. To his credit, the Chosen goes for one of the arrows he still has on him and makes to drive it into Rook’s side.

He doesn’t respond in time to stop Rook grabbing his wrist. A sharp twist and the bones splinter, making the man choke out a pained yelp, muffled by the cloth covering his face. “Is that all you got?”

Rook lets go and shoves him back, leaves him to stumble and clutch his wrist to his chest. Rook goes to follow him when Boomer growls warningly. A darted look in his direction reveals another cultist up by the edge of the trees, crouched low behind a boulder. Watching, just watching, not even a gun in their hands.

And Rook-

He does love an audience.

“Where is your _strength?”_ he taunts, circling the Chosen slowly. Always keeping the fourth in the corner of his vision, watching him creep towards one of the discarded guns.

The radio shatters under his boot, Jacob’s voice going silent.

And Rook pitches his own voice lower, drags the words out and emphasises each harsh consonant, but keeps the volume loud enough to be heard by their watcher. “You are soft, and weak. You are _prey._ You’ve done _nothing_ to earn your place in this world, and that makes you little more than meat awaiting the butcher’s knife.”

Every bit of tension ramps up in the men, and the mask does nothing to hide the widening of the Chosen’s grey eyes.

Mockingbird, his commander used to call him when he’d pull this trick. He isn’t doing a full imitation right now, simply matching the cadence enough to be familiar. The first time he did it was as a joke, imitating his commander to scare a guy who’d pissed him off. They found better uses for it after that.

And now? Well, now he’s doing it for pure entertainment.

(That’s a lie. There’s more - there always is. There’s days of listening to Jacob’s voice, to hearing him go on and on about strength, about the glory of war, about his right to decide who is weak and who deserves to live. There’s Joseph and John and Faith, all so certain they can save him, that he’ll join them in the end because they can’t possibly be wrong, because they know him and _want_ him.

There’s years of being weak, being small and vulnerable and not enough, never enough. Of being told he deserves this, that if he was stronger he’d fight back, and it wouldn’t happen to him at all. There’s knowing that anyone who claims they’re strong just means they’re able to make someone else weak, and that kind of brittle strength, a power so utterly dependent on the world cowering before them, will shatter the second someone bigger and badder shows up.

There’s the need, always, _always_ , to break before you can be broken.)

“If you want to live, you have to fight for it. You have to be willing to give up everything you have. Everything you are.” Rook strips off his arm guards, the chest plate following. He keeps his tone perfectly even, a patient lecture that the two men listen to with all the obedience of a trained response. “Until all that remains is the pure, iron-clad will to survive.”

Rook opens his arms wide, palms outward, and relaxes his stance into something open. Vulnerable, and so sure of his invulnerability. A pose he can recall with ease.

“Prove to me you deserve to survive.”

There’s a long pause. Then, the cultist lunges for a rifle while the Chosen throws himself forward, a desperate yell tearing from his lips. Charging like he’s fresh out of training, greener than his response times and earlier confidence marks him as. Former military, like many of the Chosen, and older than the other two. More experienced. But Rook’s unnerved him, and the Chosen have had flight beaten out of them until fight was all that remained.

Rook waits for him, the seconds ticking down in his head until the man is mere centimetres from him. Close enough to see the sheen over his eyes, the sweat trickling down exposed skin. Smells dirt and blood and Bliss.

And turns all that momentum against him, sends him sprawling into the dirt. Waits for him to get up, and does it again. Shifts away from hard punches, knocks them aside or retaliates with his own. Feels ribs break under his knuckles until blood stains the man’s lips. Keeps the man between him and the one with the gun, and watches the cultist waver, trying to get a clean shot and failing. A click of Rook’s tongue has Peaches creeping towards him, and Rook doesn’t need to watch him any longer.

It’s mean. Cruel, he’d call it if he hadn’t seen, done (been through) far worse. What was a fight quickly turns into a beat down, and the Chosen flags as exhaustion starts to kick in, his injuries slowing him down further. Increasingly desperate, his moves get more reckless. Leaves him open.

Rook counts off each time he could’ve killed him, turns punches into taps against his throat, the back of his neck, light and taunting. Makes it as clear as day that Rook is drawing this out.

It’s what causes the man to finally speak. “Just kill me already!” He’s breathing heavily, a wheeze to it that makes Rook think one of those broken ribs might’ve hit a lung, and his knees hit the ground hard. “Stop _playing_ with me!”

He struggles for a moment, tries to push himself up. Fails. But he keeps trying, keeps pushing himself past the point where his body is ready to give up. Bloody and broken, and halfway to dead.

Rook watches him, watches the gunman bleeding out from Peaches’ teeth and their small audience. Thinks _where’s your strength, now?_ Thinks _you wanted to be a killer so bad, how’s it feel to meet a better one?_

Thinks _there’s always a bigger monster._

“You fought well,” he says, steps closer and cradles the man’s jaw. Sees shock slacken his face, draining the last of his fight for him. “Do you want this to end?”

The man swallows. “Yes,” he admits hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper. Tired and pained and humiliated.

“Good.” Rook smiles like he’s proud of him. Holds his jaw tighter, and the man braces himself. Thinks himself prepared for what comes next.

And doesn’t move when Rook steps away, picking up his discarded weapons and protection as he goes. He whistles to bring Boomer and Peaches to him. Before he leaves, he snatches up one of the Chosen’s combat knives. Tests the edge, and smiles at the quality.

Then he throws the knife down in front of the Chosen, sharp point sinking into the dirt, and doesn’t look back.

* * *

A day later, he gets a phone call.

Jess scowls at him when the sound scares away the deer they were hunting. He winces apologetically, digging through his jacket to silence it. Usually he has it silenced, but he’d been listening to music earlier - hey, the radio station might be stuck on cult music or mind-numbing broadcasts in the Whitetails, but it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the songs he’s got downloaded when the repetition gets to him - and forgot to turn the sound back off. So of course it decided to ring just after he’s managed to convince Jess to teach him how she’s so damn quiet all the time.

Ignoring the call isn’t really an option, so he waves her ahead and finds a tree to lean against. Three guesses as to who it is, and the first two don’t count.

“John, always a pleasure to hear from you.”

_“Rook. How have you been?”_

The forced pleasantness dripping from John’s voice makes Rook snort. It sounds- incredibly unnatural, honestly. Even at his most amiable the undercurrent of threat never went away, and Rook prefers that to whatever the hell this is.

But he plays along. “Good, good. Keeping busy.”

Sort of. He’s been, well, slower than usual. Less relentless attacks, more making the time to wander and enjoy himself. Still taking out cultists and Judges whenever he sees them, but he’s slowed the pace of his near-frantic assaults on cult property, settled for something more casual. Makes the time to help people out with requests he’d normally consider time-wasters, like scaring an ex-boyfriend or collecting random herbs. Steals a snazzy red cult plane and challenges himself to get better at driving the damn thing, getting Nick on the radio to give him some impromptu lessons. Tries out fishing on an especially warm day, and doesn’t catch a single thing in five hours.

He hasn’t even made much of an effort to track down the Whitetail Militia, other than asking if anyone’s heard from them lately.

He’s…well, he’s drawing this out. The meeting with Joseph made Rook see just how fast he’s hurtling towards the inevitable end of all of this, and he isn’t quite ready to let it go so easy. The awareness of how dull things will be afterwards keeps creeping up on him, and he has to distract himself before he can linger too long on it.

Lucky for him, Hope County is just full of distractions.

_“I don’t doubt that,”_ John says, a hint of wryness in his voice. Rook wonders if Jacob’s been bitching to John about him. Do they do that? Complain about him to each other? Compare notes over how many of their things he’s destroyed, the tactics they’ve used in their attempts to ‘save’ him, see who’s the worst off and therefore has the right to rant about him?

As hilarious as the idea is, he doubts it. Jacob hasn’t even started preaching at him over the radio yet, like both John and Faith did when he was in their territories. Rook is starting to feel kind of ignored, honestly. Sure, there always seems to be tonnes of Chosen showing up after he does something attention-grabbing, but there’s been no personalised threats or kidnapping attempts. It’s something he hadn’t realised he’s gotten used to.

“There a reason for this call, or are things so quiet in the valley that you’re getting bored enough to chat up the enemy?”

John makes an impatient noise. _“You are not the enemy, Rook. Surely, that’s been made clear to you by now.”_

Yeah. Just a bit. “Then who’re all these people shooting at me? ‘Cause I gotta say, if those are meant to be gestures of friendship, your social skills could use some work.”

_“I see you aren’t above being purposely obtuse,”_ John says, as if Rook’s mission in existence is to annoy him. Not entirely off the mark, to be honest. _“You came to the sermon, spoke with Joseph. You have to understand by now that we only want to save you. We want you to join us.”_

Rook frowns. Again with the saving him thing. He doesn’t mind so much when it’s John saying it, gets that he’s only doing it because Joseph gave him that ultimatum. Either he breaks Rook of his dastardly sinner ways, or no Eden for him. Brother of the year right there.

“What happened to not believing I was worth saving?” Because he distinctly remembers that attitude of John’s. So eager to dig into him and discover his darkest secrets, yet utterly certain that he didn’t deserve the salvation Joseph so graciously offered.

John is quiet for a long moment. Gentle pressure against his leg has Rook glancing down, meeting Peaches’ mismatched eyes as she rubs against him. A smile flickers across his face and Rook strokes her head, losing the slight tension in his shoulders when she pushes up into his palm. When this is all over, he’s definitely taking her and Boomer with him. He doesn’t give a shit how impractical it is. They’re his, now.

_“You are not a good person,”_ John says slowly, like he’s testing out the words - testing for Rook’s response. Eyebrows raising, Rook simply listens.

_“Initially, I believed you were under the misconception that you were the_ hero. _That your cause was righteous, and you only needed to be shown the truth. I thought-”_ He pauses, a soft quality to his voice that Rook hasn’t heard before. _“I thought you hid from your sins like everyone else. That you simply needed to be cleansed, be shown the way, and perhaps then you would fulfil the role Joseph has seen fit to cast you in.”_

“And now?”

_“Now…”_ John chuckles, quiet and tired. Nothing close to his usual smugness, and it’s disorientating to hear him like this. _“Now I know how wrong we were. We believed we knew you. That we understood you. Yet we never listened, not once. And you kept trying to tell me but I just didn’t_ listen-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated sound.

_“I am supposed to see people as they truly are, to offer them the atonement they crave so desperately, to bridge the gap from their old lives to the new. I do not do this simply to_ punish, _I do it to gift them an existence free from sin and suffering._

_“And yet-”_ He can’t seem to stop himself now, every word rushed and heated, a hoarse confession. _“-I looked at you and thought only of myself, of what I wanted to see in you and believed it reality. I sought only to_ take.” His laugh is harsher this time, bitter and stressed. “ _And you saw that. You told me I had to earn your confession, earn the right to your secrets, and I didn’t listen. I ignored the warnings, the_ truth _you offered, and now we suffer the consequences of our arrogance. All we’ve done is drive you away. How can you do anything but refuse us?”_

Rook can hear John’s heavy breathing over the phone once the outburst is over. Makes it feel like John could be standing right beside him, not on the other side of the county.

Peaches presses into his hand, and distractedly Rook rubs his fingers against the base of her ears. It- he isn’t sure what to think. Despite everything John said being tinged by religious fanaticism, the core of it is…well, it shows more awareness than Rook thought him capable of. If not awareness, then at least a deeper consideration that hinted at the hundreds of times John’s gone over their past conversations, turning over every word, every action in an attempt to understand.

And that’s…that’s something.

“Did Joseph tell you what I said to him?” he finally says when the silence stretches on too long.

_“No. He…He has not spoken of what happened between you.”_ There’s a sharp exhale, and John’s next words are self-deprecating. _“Other than to advise us against contacting you for some time.”_

The corners of Rook’s lips crook into a half-smile. “How rebellious of you.” He sighs, quiet enough that John probably didn’t hear. “Y’know, it’s funny. You’ve probably come closer to understanding me than anyone else in this damn county.”

_“I have?”_ His voice holds more shaky neediness than it does surprise.

He wonders what drove John to this point, to make him speak so freely without any thought to the naked desperation he’s showing. Wonders how much his appointed task has been hanging over him, his operations in ruins as he barely holds onto his last few strongholds in the valley, the Resistance a solid presence in the region. Maybe he thinks that converting Rook is the only thing he has left that can redeem him in Joseph’s eyes.

“Trust me, that isn’t much of an achievement.” Doesn’t help that Rook lies to everyone he meets. Can’t blame them for not knowing if he doesn’t say anything - or directly acts against his own nature. Rook’s gaze drifts, catching on Boomer chasing after a butterfly. The spark of warmth gentles his next words. “But I guess it’s only fair, since you’re the reason I stuck around in the first place.”

John’s swallow is audible over the phone. _“You mean- when your friend assumed that you were provoked, it was me she was referring to?”_

Denise did say that in their phone call, didn’t she? That’s a point in the ‘obsessively going over every interaction’ column. “Yeah. I was on my way out when I saw your little commercial. You could say it caught my attention,” he admits dryly.

_“Then you do care for Hudson and your fellow officers?”_ John sounds oddly disappointed.

It’s what makes Rook decide to be honest. That, and a chance to shed one of the first lies he told when he set out on this self-appointed mission. “Not really. I don’t know them, didn’t speak to them much before things kicked off. They aren’t _mine,_ y’know?”

_“I do,”_ John says quickly. _“But why did seeing her make you decide to fight us? If you have no personal investment, why go to all this trouble?”_

Rook tips his head back until rough bark presses against his skull. Considers the branches above him and listens close for footsteps or breathing, anything other than Peaches and John. There’s the gentle sound of leaves rustling in the slight breeze, birds calling to each other. Further away he can hear the river, crashing against rocks in a relentless stream. Easy to feel like no one’s around for miles, this far out in the Whitetails. Even Jess will have moved on, following the deer until she catches it and drags it back to the camp they’ll settle at for the evening.

Makes the decision to be honest a little easier.

“You ever get so fucking tired of everything you just want to-” He clears his throat roughly. “You don’t see the point? Same shit, different day, and you think it’ll get better. Has to, right? And maybe it’s okay for a while, maybe you figure out a way to keep yourself occupied, make it all stop for a little while. Maybe even feel good, now and again. More often if you don’t give yourself chance to think too much. But it never starts feeling like it’s worth it. It’s never _enough.”_

He slides down the tree until he hits dirt. He doesn’t know why he’s saying this, why he’s telling John of all people. But Denise isn’t here and he misses her so badly, just wants someone to look at him again and _see_ him. And he feels distant even as he speaks about shit he never brings up voluntarily, like it isn’t him saying it anymore, he’s just the mouthpiece.

“You offered me a challenge, John. You’re interesting, all of you are, and how the hell was I gonna resist that? So I’ll fight you, I’ll make myself the goddamn hero of this shitshow, I’ll be the weapon the Resistance needs and the wrathful sinner _you_ need me to be.” He chuckles softly. “And hey, this one should keep me going for a while. Don’t think anything will ever live up to it, though.”

_“We’re offering you_ more _than just a challenge-”_ John stops himself, pulls back on the ragged urgency until it’s something more composed. _“I know you don’t believe us, and that’s perfectly understandable. All I ask is that you give us a chance to prove that our offer to join our family is genuine. Tell me how I can earn your trust.”_

“You want to know what I told Joseph? I said-”

_“I don’t care!”_ Rook stills at the interruption, mouth still half-open. John doesn’t stay quiet for long. _“You’re talking to_ me, _not Joseph, not Faith. Your confession is_ mine.”

Rook blinks slowly. Forces lightness into his voice. “You say that like you’re not gonna report every word I said to them after this.”

_“I won’t,”_ he insists, a pleading edge to his words. _“I promise you that this will stay between us.”_

Rook bites back the urge to tell him that his promises mean nothing to Rook. Seems too…mean. And John really does think he’s telling the truth, that he won’t run off and tell Joseph first chance he gets. Almost enough for Rook to believe it.

_“Please. Tell me how I can earn the right to your secrets.”_ Pure, focused _need_ creeps into John’s voice, turns it low and heated. Rook shifts, justs lightly. Enough to make Peaches growl faintly where she’s set her head on his thigh.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ll be honest, you don’t have much of a chance considering you lot keep trying to manipulate me. And the fucking Bliss - still haven’t forgiven you for that, by the way. Near decided to kill you then and there. You-” His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t get why you want this so badly. I mean, I know Joseph told you I had to be saved so you can enter Eden-”

_“You think that’s all there is to it?”_ John’s chuckle has an exhausted tinge to it. _“If only. Perhaps you aren’t as observant as I thought.”_

“Insulting me won’t get you any closer to learning my deepest, darkest secrets,” Rook says wryly.

_“Really? And I was so sure that this would be the one method to finally work. After all, we’ve crossed off kidnapping, torture, threats, coercion, and the salvation of your soul.”_

“Don’t go giving up now. Eventually, something’s gotta work.” The words are out before he realises he’s basically given John permission to keep bugging him over this, as if he actually has a chance of deserving to know a single thing about Rook. As if he isn’t just as manipulative as his siblings.

Rook squeezes his eyes shut. Idiot. He hasn’t given too much away this time - it’s easy to laugh off depression and aimlessness, can’t really be used against him like his past can - but he still shouldn’t be saying all this.

_“Believe me, I can be extremely persistent when I want to be.”_ Rook would’ve expected that to sound like a threat by now, but it’s too warm, too familiar to match the sharpness of his usual tone. Almost friendly, if that’s something John is even capable of. Or flirtatious, if Rook was talking about anyone except a religious lunatic.

Bushes rustle and Boomer runs over to him, barking in that low, urgent way which indicates enemies nearby. Rook gets to his feet and reaches for his rifle, eyeing the trees and takes note of how Peaches rises but keeps low, tail twitching as she looks towards where Boomer came from.

Duty calls.

“Then I’ll look forward to your next attempt.”


	13. Chapter 13

Rook keeps things low-key for the next few days in the Whitetails. Taking out supply vans on the roads, releasing hostages and putting down Judges along with their handlers. Nothing big and exciting, but enough to keep him busy. A gradual return to his main mission after the brief break.

He teams up with Jess a few more times, adjusting to her quiet, serious demeanour and learning how much he can joke around before she gets annoyed enough to shoot an arrow his way. He cheers the time he manages to catch one out of the air, his fist pump and exaggerated bragging making her impressed expression swiftly fade into an eyeroll. She does seem to lighten up around him afterwards, though, and she makes a good teammate for whenever he wants to take an outpost quietly.

Hurk, however? Not the kind of guy Rook would bring along when there’s hostages around.

“This is a lot of effort for one truck!” Rook yells from where he’s manning the mounted machine gun, deafened by the Bliss containers he just blew up, taking out several cultists with them. Hurk’s driving is so shit Rook nearly gets thrown off the top of the truck several times.

“She’s worth it man, trust me!” Hurk calls back. “And my daddy’ll be real mad if we don’t get her back, and we came all this way, so-”

Rook has to clutch tight to the metal bars and hunker down, avoiding a sudden strafing from a helicopter that’s decided now is the perfect time to show up.

“Hey dude, could y’maybe deal with that? ‘Cause I don’t think my daddy’ll be happy if his truck ends up with more bullet holes, and we’re already lookin’ like swiss cheese here. No pressure or anythin’. You’re doin’ great!”

The truck swerves hard, driving the butt of the gun into Rook’s gut and knocking the breath from him. “Got it,” he coughs. That’s gonna bruise.

Aiming at a helicopter isn’t easy in a moving vehicle on roads that dip and rise like a rollercoaster, not even taking into account Hurk’s driving or their very determined obstacles. Rook does his best, sweat dripping down his forehead and eyes narrowed in concentration. The jerk of the helicopter when the pilot loses control makes satisfaction sweep through him, and he laughs gleefully when it hits the ground in an explosion of fire and metal. “Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck yeah is right!”

Rook drags the gun around to fire on a quad bike that’s leapt over the hill after them, some very stupid cultists on the back. He’s kind enough to aim at the tires, which just makes the bike spin out of control and throws the men forward - probably killing them on impact.

“I can’t actually see what you’re doin’, ‘cause I’m watchin’ the road like a responsible driver, promise, I ain’t looked back even once, but I’m sure it’s awesome! Definitely sad I’m missin’ out on those explosions, and that guy doin’ a helluva flip right there, man, that’s impressive.”

The fact they make it back to Drubman’s place without getting injured is downright shocking. Rook’s in a good mood despite being all sweaty and gross, so he doesn’t even get pissed off at Drubman being an ungrateful asshole. Just gives him an unimpressed stare when he starts insulting his son, then solemnly tells Hurk that he’s the best getaway driver Rook’s ever had. The bashful smile he gets is enough to have Rook inviting Hurk along on any missions where he can throw subtlety out the window.

Which…is kind of happening more and more often. Since he got his gear from Denise he’d mostly given up on playing at having a junior deputy’s skills. It wasn’t going to hold up long term, and it’s hard to keep himself in check all the time. It’s why he doesn’t like sparring with people all that much; he always instinctively wants to go for lethal strikes, which leaves him constantly restraining himself and dulling his reaction times. He can do it if he needs to - otherwise he’d have shit control and would be useless for anything other than killing - but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

So by now, yeah, Eden’s Gate know he’s good. And Rook is waiting for Jacob to come after him with everything he’s got, certain that the more military-minded brother will do the smart thing. But as chatty as his siblings are, Jacob’s been…well, suspiciously quiet. Rook’s heard his voice over outpost speakers and cult broadcasts, but he hasn’t heard from him personally even after being in the Whitetails for several days. Call Rook self-centred, but he’s come to expect the special treatment by this point, and it’s a bit confusing not to get it.

Which is - maybe - why he commandeers a plane and flies it straight into the trio of cult helicopters which patrol the Whitetails.

Well. _Used_ to patrol the Whitetails. Right now they’re smoking wreckages, bits of Rook’s plane indistinguishable from helicopter parts, at least as far as he can tell when he’s drifting down with his parachute. He takes a selfie to commemorate the moment, and because he knows the Seeds will see it once he sends it to Denise.

Apparently that’s enough to get Jacob’s attention, because barely a few hours pass before Rook hears his voice over the radio. He stops near the lookout point he’s checking out, having heard from a civilian he stopped from being eaten by a Judge that there’s some ammunition stored here, and feels his lips twitch into a satisfied smirk. Fucking finally.

_“There is someone out there…who believes he is capable of hunting us.”_

_Believes_ he’s capable? Rook pulls a face at the radio. He’s been doing a damn fine job of murdering his way through Eden’s Gate, thank you very much. If you want to get technical, hunting humans is pretty much what he _does._ Contract killing is essentially being told ‘hey, hunt this guy down and kill them, oh and do it this way because I’m a demanding asshat with too much money’. When he isn’t taking those sorts of jobs he’s still usually killing people one way or another.

Jacob is ignorant to his annoyance. _“He is killing our brothers and sisters, and putting this Project in jeopardy.”_

Nice, some fucking acknowledgement. There’s no way any other single person is causing as much damage to the cult as he is. Sure, the Resistance is building itself up and there’s plenty of competent people joining up now, but Rook is the one in the spotlight.

They better like, build him a statue or something after this. Rook will have fucked off by then, of course, but it’d be a nice gesture. Maybe not an obnoxiously big thing like Joseph’s, but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at a gold-plated statue in the centre of Fall’s End. Or in - what will be - the remains of Joseph’s compound.

_“I want this coward to know that he has my attention. My hunters are coming for you. There’s nowhere you can run.”_

“Coward?” Rook grumbles to himself, casting a disbelieving look at Boomer. “Who the hell does this guy think he’s talking to?”

Boomer barks happily, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a doggy smile.

“Yeah, knew you’d be on my side. You’re best boy for a reason, aren’t you?”

The distraction of Boomer doing his best to lick Rook’s face lasts as long as it takes for Dutch to pipe up over the radio, warning Rook to watch his back. Rook lets his disgruntlement fade in favour of the satisfaction that his ‘plan’ worked. Jacob’s finally looking his way, which means Rook can get serious now. Push things a bit more and start properly looking into the Whitetail Militia.

Which, well…he doesn’t get all that far before he’s having to dodge the promised hunters. Okay, that’s not quite true. Rook doesn’t dodge so much as he throws himself in headfirst, warned of their proximity by Boomer or Peaches, and then he’s in the midst of a cat and mouse game where no one’s sure who’s who.

Scattering proximity explosives in his wake and leaping out of trees to drive his knife into a man’s skull, Rook knows which role he favours.

And these guys? They’re _good._ A tier above everyone he’s dealt with before, and fuck if Rook doesn’t need the reminder that he’s gotten used to a certain standard. He gets more cuts and bruises than he has in a while, and it’s only been a couple days.

In addition, these bastards don’t play fair. They’ve been watching him, know his usual tactics and do everything they can to disrupt them. Don’t give him a chance to breathe, and the second things aren’t in their favour they retreat, swap out the injured and exhausted for fresh meat, and throw them at Rook. Don’t let up for even a single moment, and at the end of the day Rook is still human.

So it’s…somewhat inevitable that they’d eventually get the drop on him. One man gets Rook’s arms restrained behind his back, and before Rook can kick him off there’s another plunging a syringe into Rook’s neck.

It isn’t Bliss, but whatever the drug is, he’s out like a light in seconds.

* * *

When he comes to he wants to throw up, nausea churning in his gut. The stench of blood and sweat and piss doesn’t help. His body is an uncooperative mess, a single twitch of his finger taking all the energy he has and it isn’t enough, barely enough to force his eyes open past the lead weights dragging down his eyelids. His vision swims in and out of focus, a haze of brown and red and the grey he recognises as the colour of his pants.

The point of reference helps to - slowly - drag the rest of the world into something that makes sense.

He’s upright, chin resting against his chest and he’s stripped of his armour, his hands bare where they’re tied against wooden chair arms. Ankles too, legs and arms and chest, the rope tight enough that he can feel it dig into his skin, cutting off circulation and numbing his limbs. There’s something in his mouth, cloth dampened by saliva and pressing hard against his cheeks.

Fuckers gagged him.

The thought sparks humour through the haze clouding his thoughts and makes him choke a laugh into the material.

Then there’s someone in front of him, movement blocking a blinding light he squints against. Pressure against his wrists, checking the ropes, and for a second he thinks they’re trying to get him free. Then he feels the binds pull tighter still, and knows whoever this is, they aren’t an ally.

Which makes it all the funnier to see Staci fucking Pratt’s bloody and bruised face as the man tells him he shouldn’t have come for him.

Rook finally regains control of his neck, tipping his head back. Boy, does Pratt look like shit. These weeks have not been kind on him. Deep shadows under his eyes, cuts both fresh and old, a nose that looks like it’s suffered a break and been set poorly, and a scattered fearfulness to him that wasn’t there before. No, someone’s gone and broken Deputy Pratt, and Rook has a feeling he’ll be seeing the perpetrator soon.

Sure enough, a projector clicks on - makes him think of his brief stint in college, a different name and a course he stuck with for a few months before losing interest - and Pratt darts away, and there he is; Jacob Seed.

Rook keeps his eyes on him, watches his little wolf-themed slide show with a dull bemusement, fog clinging to his mind and slowing everything down to half-speed.

What the fuck is this? The world is weak, yeah, he gets that. Got it the first hundred times he heard it over Jacob’s broadcasts. Doesn’t need to see deer carcases and listen to a guy raving about the heroes of old, the weakness of their leaders, and the glory of sacrifice to see how important strength is.

Most of him is focused on the room, on how he’ll get himself out. Two other hostages, tied up like him. Dressed in fatigues so he’s guessing they’re members of the Whitetail Militia. The room’s fucking covered in blood, ground dark with it, and there are wooden floorboards so he probably isn’t in a bunker.

When he gets his eyes to focus long enough he sees words smeared on the wall. _ONLY YOU._ These boys really do have a dramatic sense of interior decorating. Too dark for him to make out much more, but he thinks the door might be off to the right going by a darker patch of shadow there. No guards apart from Jacob and Pratt, and it’s clear Pratt isn’t on Rook’s side here. No, he’s Jacob’s now, standing at attention and flinching when Jacob walks closer to him, doesn’t lose that tension even when Jacob turns away.

Hard part will be getting free, getting the fuck up when he can barely keep his head from lolling forward. Not Bliss, he reminds himself, but fuck if it isn’t potent. No hazy contentment or obedience, and instead his body refuses to cooperate with the simplest of commands. The edge of panic licks at the corners of his mind, threatening to burst through the steel walls he’s built for himself. He tucks those feelings away, shoves them down into that little box which’ll explode at a later time - just not now.

So he’s there, focused and present as he can be right now, when Jacob approaches him.

“Now, the Collapse is upon us,” he’s saying, voice hushed and pale blue eyes lit up by the projector. He braces his weight on Rook’s forearms, leans in close - _Airborne 82,_ the patch on his shoulder reads, and his dog tags clink together, makes Rook think of warm metal under his thumb, of pressing the engraving against his skin so hard the mark would last hours - and although his words are even, calm, there’s a tension to his jaw that adds an extra bite.

“And this time the lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many.”

As if that’s something new, as if everything in this world isn’t just a balancing act between the few with power and the many without. Jacob and his brothers have taken that power for themselves - that’s the only real change. And it’s in such a fucking limited capacity that it’s hilarious, ‘cause they think what they’re doing means anything, that the end’s really coming and they’ll be the ones on top. Rulers of Hope County’s ashes. Just up until the government gets off their asses and rolls in.

“And when a nation that’s never known hunger or desperation descends into madness-” Jacob’s lips twitch up, just slightly, and it’s clear as day that he’s looking forward to it. Desperate for it. Needs this war like he needs air, only more so because war is who Jacob Seed is and he can’t be anything else, not now. It’s too late. “-we’ll be ready. We will cull the herd. We will do what needs to be done.”

He pauses, slow and considering. “You can help us there, if my brother is right about you. But so far, all I’ve seen is a stray dog blindly lashing out at anyone who comes near.”

Rook’s eyes narrow. Already starting on the dog comparisons, huh? Like he hasn’t heard that one before.

Jacob catches the shift in his expression, and his gaze drops briefly to the gag. “I’m sure you have plenty to say. Always do, don’t you? Always talking. It must be difficult to stay silent.”

His hand closes around the knot holding the cloth in place, as if he’s going to untie it, and Rook tenses when it brings him closer. Because where John and Joseph are dangerous in their own ways, Jacob is a familiar threat. Experience, muscle and skill, all evident just by the way Jacob holds himself. In a fight Rook is confident he could kill him, but that’s a version of him who isn’t tied up and drugged.

Jacob yanks hard on the cloth, dragging Rook’s head back into the motion and pulling a few hairs out. The grunt that escapes him is more surprised than pained, the gag cutting into the corners of his mouth and pressing hard on his tongue. Enough to feel that with just a bit more pressure it could choke him.

“I’m less willing to indulge you than my brothers.” Jacob sounds aggravated by that, and Rook allows himself a burst of satisfaction. Wishes he could grin at Jacob, the hostility clearing his head like nothing else does. As fun as the other Seeds are, it’s a good change to see the lack of desire to make Rook one of theirs. To have someone look at him like a threat.

Jacob lets go and straightens. Rook’s head drops forward again, dizziness adding weight to it, until he gets enough control to glare up at Jacob.

“I’ll give you this. I had to change my usual methods for you, Deputy.” He smiles, a small, mean twist of his mouth. “Joseph said not to use Bliss on you. An inconvenience, I’ll admit. I’ve found it has the least side effects and is generally the most…effective.”

He gestures, and Pratt comes forward. There’s a syringe in his hand, shaking with the trembles running through his arms. Rook’s blood goes cold, and his head is too clear now. Too quiet.

“It wasn’t easy to find a suitable alternative.” Jacob takes the syringe. Rook’s abruptly aware of the exposed skin of his arms, sleeves rolled back to his elbows and armour gone.

He yanks against the ropes, as hard as he can and it’s fucking _nothing,_ he’s stuck here with Jacob bringing the needle closer, resting it just above his skin and watching Rook like he’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week.

“Let’s see if you’re worth the trouble.”

And there’s pressure against his arm, pushing in with a sharp sting, and a heartbeat of stillness-

And then-

_Only you_

And then there’s-

_Can make all this world seem right_

Red and light and too much, nails hammered into his skull and digging deeper, pushed under into the vulnerable flesh and tearing it out of him, making him hollow. And he can’t think, can’t move or speak, there’s just the red boiling under his skin and eroding the parts of him he doesn’t need, not now, because now he needs to-

_Only you can_

_Fight._

_make the darkness_

_Survive._

_bright_

_Cull the herd._

It catches at him. Pulls him under, keeps pulling, and he pushes back because no, _no_ he doesn’t kill for anyone but himself anymore, doesn’t take a life unless he _wants_ to. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. He won’t be their toy soldier anymore, wind him up and watch him go, watch and stare when he keeps coming back each time. He shouldn’t come back, shouldn’t survive, but he keeps doing it and they keep watching him and trying harder to put him down for good and it just won’t _take-_

_Only you_

More red, slicing into his skin and stripping it away until he’s a walking open wound. It hurts, pain like he’s never felt (hasn’t felt in years) and he needs to stop it, needs to fight back otherwise it’ll keep cutting until there’s nothing left of him. He needs a weapon-

_Get up. Fight._

-and his fingers curl around a gun, a cool weight in his palm, solid and present like nothing else is. He knows this. Knows how to aim, how to pull a trigger, keep pulling and now there are targets and they’re gone, torn apart like he is and the room is red redred _red,_ echoing with discordant notes and the heartbeat drumming in his ears and-

_Sacrifice the weak._

_-_ Rook knows this, sinks into it until it doesn’t hurt anymore, can’t feel anything except the individual movements, the pull of muscles and the wet heat of blood on his face, in his mouth, _teeth ripping into carcasses and rotting corpses,_ and-

_Well done._

-move, keep moving, get in close and drive a fist into bare throats, feel something crumple and keep _moving,_ bring the gun up and shoot, one two _three_ , chest neck _head,_ twist and there’s another, waiting with his rifle that’s too slow to release the bullet before Rook is there, too close to stop, fingers curling into short hair and slamming the target hard against the wall, hears the crack and keeps going, he’s done here, he’s done but it isn’t ending there can’t be any more he killed them all he’s killed so many they’re dead deaddead he’s alive he isn’t dead he isn’t-

_Again._

-hunt them down, each and every one. Find them and kill because there’s nothing else, he’s nothing else, he’s a killer and that’s all he is all he ever will be. Keep going, over and over, and there’s always more to kill, more warm bodies in fatigues yelling _sacrifice_ and _cull the herd_ and he can do that, he can’t do anything else but that, and the slow crawling strains of music seep under his skin and make their home in bone marrow, in him, until he’s the song and it’s him and he needs to keep killing, keep going, don’t let anything get in his way-

_Good._

-and-

_Only you_

-and he-

_can make this change in me_

-he can’t-

_For it’s true_

-there isn’t-

_you are my destiny_

-there’s nothing left.

And Rook-

_Again._

-keeps moving.

_Only you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob's conditioning joins the pile of 'how is this realistically meant to work- eh it's video game logic' along with Bliss and Rook's skill level


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: dissociation, brief reference to past sexual abuse in the paragraph starting "The clang of metal sends a shudder through him."

Wake up.

There are voices. Words he can’t make out, unfamiliar strains. Movement, coming closer, moving him. Louder. Surprise, shock. Touch, burning at his arms his face his sides stopstopstop-

Don’t let them take him.

Lunge. Legs crumple, don’t let that stop him. Arms, use them, pull them close and find the vulnerable points, dig fingers in and prepare to twist-

Yelling, iron bands on his wrists yanking him away. Snarl and kick out, fall and hit the ground hard, reverberating up his side. Too slow, weak and exhausted and heavy, and he can’t see straight can’t think-

Don’t think, just fight. Don’t let them take him. Don’t let them touch, stop it, leave him alone please stop let go-

“Deputy! Snap out of it!”

-get the chair between him and then, back up but there’s a wall, corners closing in on him and he can’t breathe. The red is choking everything out, and he can’t find his knife his gun there’s nothing useful on him. It’s okay, he’s fought with less he can survive this, kill them before they kill him, do it now before they can regroup, get them while they’re just looking at him. Should’ve killed him when they had the chance, stupid and inexperienced and concerned-

-concerned?

Shake confusion away, watch one come closer - male, thirties, ex-military, gun on his hip but his hands are empty. Let him come closer, words washing over, and go for the gun when it’s within reach.

A shout, hands on his arms, dragging him down. Kick and get someone, toss them back with a pained cry. Don’t stop even when everything hurts, weights slowing every movement, making him sluggish and useless. More yelling, words back and forth and too quick to follow.

A sharp scratch. Slow, slower now, can’t move, can’t get up can’t stop them let go _let go please please I’ll be better I promise please-_

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’ll be alright. We’ve got you.”

* * *

Rook opens his eyes.

It takes a lot longer for him to start piecing the shattered parts of himself back together. For him to be coherent enough to register where he is, what’s happening.

In the jagged, endless time before that, he gets snapshots of what’s going on around him. Waking in a small room, wrists bound. Panicking. Someone coming near, and lashing out. Huddling in the corner of the room, back against the wall and face pressed to his knees, rocking slowly and he can’t breathe, can’t drag in enough air. Voices, raised and quiet both.

Getting himself out of the ties somehow. Keeping small and silent until someone gets close. Dragging them in - blood, a loud snap - then hands forcing him back, shoving him hard, and his head hits the wall hard. Knocks him to the ground and his ears are ringing. Palm to the floor, push himself up again-

-and again-

-and again-

-until the world seeps away from him.

He wakes, and lasts all of five seconds before the razor-sharp panic is back. Curls in on himself and fights against whispers, against trailing fingertips and mocking laughter that feels as real as the concrete floor under him. Scratches at his neck to get the hum out from under his skin, to get rid of the filth coating every inch of him. Flinches with each sound, cracks of pain that come out of nowhere yet are impossibly familiar. Bleed out, over and over, until the floor should be slick with it.

Nothing is there when he looks.

He’s alone.

Always alone. And it makes sense, he’s supposed to be alone. He isn’t made to be around people. He’s a weapon, and killing is the only thing he’s ever been good for. Hollow and empty, nothing but a tool to be passed around and used. That’s all he’ll ever be. He doesn’t deserve anything more.

The clang of metal sends a shudder through him. He doesn’t look up, can’t bring himself to. Just curls up tighter, hides his vulnerabilities as best he can, and knows it won’t be enough. Too weak. Always too weak. Why else would he get hurt so often? He can’t stop them. He can’t do anything right. He should just lay back and _take it-_

A quiet, rumbling growl, and there’s something soft pressed to his cheek.

He freezes. The pressure doesn’t go away. It’s joined by a warm weight against his leg, a paw pressed to his knee. A dog barks, and Rook jolts. It’s familiar. Familiar in a way that doesn’t hurt and that-

He licks his dry lips, tastes blood. Slowly, achingly, lifts his head.

There’s a low chirp and he’s looking into blue and green eyes, whiskers brushing against his jaw. Peaches takes his attention as an invitation, purrs low and rubs her forehead against his. His breath shudders out of him at the contact, a break from the harsh, choking gasps he hasn’t been able to control, and his eyes flicker shut involuntarily.

Another quiet bark, and then Boomer is shoving under his arm and climbing into his lap, all gentle whines and messy affection. There’s a strangled sound, almost a sob, and it takes him a moment to realise he made it. Takes him longer to unfreeze, to lean into warm fur. Can’t move his arms much, wrists bound together, and for once the panic is dulled. Boomer and Peaches are here. They won’t let anyone get him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Every breath makes him shake, persistent shivers wracking his body that he can’t stop. A growing awareness of hunger gnawing at his gut, of a parched throat and pain, aching and everywhere, his whole body one big bruise.

He’s so tired, so fucking tired, and it’s hard to pull himself back together. He doesn’t want to. He wants it to be over.

But there’s Boomer in his lap, Peaches draped half over his shoulder and purring hard enough for it to rumble through him, overtaking the trembling of his muscles. They need him. If he doesn’t get up, they’ll be abandoned again. He can’t do that to them. They’re his now, and he takes care of what’s his.

Eventually - could be minutes, could be hours - he lifts his head. Feels the strain in his neck, the protest of stiff muscles. This time, he’s able to take in the room properly. He’s near a sleeping bag, a pillow thrown to the side and not much else in the room with him. No windows, and the door is a thick metal thing. Locked, he’s betting.

But whoever put him in here let Boomer and Peaches in, brought them to him, so they’re unlikely to be cultists. His memories are hazy, but he remembers people trying to talk to him. Remembers fatigues and an insignia, antlers and _Resist Repel Remain-_

The Whitetail Militia.

They must’ve got him out. Found him when he was under the influence of whatever Jacob drugged him with, that endless red maze and _Only You,_ repeating again and again and again. Starving, drifting in and out but always under, always fighting. Never given a second to pull himself back together.

Not Bliss. Joseph asked him not to use Bliss. So he used something else, something that makes Rook’s head pound and sets every nerve on fire.

That’s-

Rook laughs, a hoarse sound that tears through his throat and makes Boomer whine. That’s funny. Jacob’s funny. Got a sense of humour on him.

Rook can’t wait to burn that out of him.

Fire’s a good choice. Cleansing. He doesn’t use it, doesn’t like it much, but he can make an exception. Burn down everything Jacob’s built, and then he’ll come for him. Add him to the pyre. Watch him try to hold back his screams, to hold onto his image as _strong,_ until the flames climb up his limbs and turn them to ash and then he’ll scream, scream until there’s nothing left to scream _with-_

“Rook?”

The door’s open, and Jess is standing in it. Watching him. Careful, so careful as she inches inside. There’s movement behind her, a low warning, but she ignores them. Eyes on him.

Did she bring Peaches and Boomer?

He swallows. Has to clear his throat twice before he can get the words out.

“Hey, Jess,” he says hoarsely, dry lips stinging as they split at the motion. Tries for a smile, and knows it comes out wrong. Too tense to try anything better.

Jess doesn’t care. Relief flickers across her face, the sight unexpected enough that Rook barely reacts to her slow approach. She crouches a few feet from him, bow still on her back and palms facing the ground. Showing she isn’t a threat.

“How’re you feelin’?”

“I-” Coughs steal his voice from him, and before he knows it Jess has a bottle of water set in front of him. He nods at her gratefully, eyes watering, and reaches for the bottle. It isn’t easy with his wrists zip-tied, but he makes do. Boomer snuffles at his cheek and moves out of the way so he can pick the bottle up, and Rook tries not to notice how hard his hand shakes.

The lukewarm water feels like heaven against his parched throat. It soothes the sparking heat lingering under his skin, just a little, and it’s a struggle not to gulp it down faster than he can handle. How long has it been since he last drank? Last ate, for that matter? His stomach is twisting in on itself, and there’s a weakness to his limbs that can’t be all due to the drugs.

He leans into Peaches’ solid weight and eyes Jess tiredly. “Not great,” he admits. Hates how weak he is right now. Hates that he’s showing this much vulnerability to anyone, even if he likes Jess. Hates that he’s barely holding on as it is, that creeping panic shivering along the corners of his mind, just waiting for the right moment to drag him back under.

Jess snorts faintly. “I ain’t surprised. You’ve been through hell, Rook. You were missin’ four days before Eli found you, an’ you’ve been locked up here for another two.”

Eli must be Eli Palmer, the guy running the Whitetail Militia. The one who got him out of that chair. He doesn’t remember them giving him food or water, but he’s alive so that must’ve happened at some point. Lost time. Too much of it.

“Locked up?”

“Yeah.” Jess doesn’t look pleased about that. “Says you kept attackin’ anyone who got close.”

“Mmh.” Rook blinks hard, struggling to keep his eyes open. Too damn heavy. “Tell them sorry for me, yeah?”

She shrugs. “They get it. And if they don’t, I’ll knock ‘em flat if they feel like pickin’ a fight over it.”

The corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile. “Thanks, Jess.”

She stays quiet for a long moment, and Rook uses the time to take stock of himself. Not too many injuries, surprisingly. His knuckles are raw and there are scratches on his neck and collarbone, but he thinks he did the latter to himself. The back of his head is throbbing in a way that’s distinct from the drug-induced headache, and he feels wrung out and drained. Used up.

So fucking tired.

“What can I do?” Jess says quickly, words forced out and awkward. When he looks at her he sees the slight wince, hesitance and worry and underneath it all, a desire to help. Not rooted in what he can do for her, in getting their weapon back into working condition, and-

Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s for him.

“I don’t want to be here.” It comes out in a hoarse whisper. Too honest. Too much given freely. A weakness.

But Jess just nods, like it makes sense to her. Like she isn’t going to use it against him.

I’ll handle it,” she says, and when she stands she goes as slow as she did on her way in, doesn’t turn her back on him but keeps every movement as nonthreatening as possible. And then she’s gone, door closing behind her.

This time when Rook’s eyes close, he can’t force them open again.

* * *

He must sleep for a while, because the next thing he knows Nick Rye is stepping through the door, and Rook isn’t restrained anymore. Nick falters when he sees Rook, friendly smile crumpling and anger flashing across his face. Then the smile is back up, somehow both warm and hard. Somehow here, when he should be in Holland Valley.

“Hey, bud,” Nick says, crouching down just like Jess did. Bit closer than her, and Peaches gives a warning growl. She’s still at his side, keeping him upright, and Boomer is laid across his lap with his ears pricked up. Waiting for a signal. Like they’ll attack if he gives even the slightest indication, despite being smart enough to know that Nick is an ally.

Maybe it’s because Rook barely knows that right now. Can’t look at Nick without checking him for weapons, gaze tracking over every twitch of muscle and shift in body language. Just in case.

“Hey,” he manages. His throat’s dry again, and he reaches for a new bottle of water set beside him.

“Heard you’ve had a rough week.” Nick’s voice is low and soothing, like he’s speaking to a wounded animal. The only thing that keeps it from being annoying is how painfully genuine his worry is.

Rook chuckles, the sound harsh. It makes Nick flinch. “You could say that.” He looks at Nick, too tired to muster much of an expression. “What brings you here?”

Nick makes an affronted face. “What d’you think? I sure ain’t here for sight-seein’.” He stands, and offers Rook a hand. “I’ve got the Carmina fired up and ready to go up top. ‘fraid I can’t ferry these two back with us, but Jess says she’ll watch them for you.”

Brow furrowing, Rook eyes the outstretched hand. “Ready to go where?”

“Back home, ‘course! Been a while since your last visit, and Kim’s gettin’ all worried. Says you’ll get yourself into trouble without someone watchin’ your back, and like usual she was right.” His fingers wiggle. “C’mon, she’ll be real mad if I show up without you, and I came all this way. Don’t make this a wasted trip - fuel ain’t easy to get right now.”

Nick wants to bring him back to his home. To Kim. As if Rook isn’t a threat, couldn’t hurt the both of them even in this state. As if they want him there.

He thinks about arguing. About saying he has stuff to do here, Eli to talk to and see about what Rook can do for the Resistance. More people to save, always is, and plenty to destroy. Jacob Seed.

“Alright.” He takes Nick’s hand, and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

* * *

Getting to the plane is a trial in of itself.

Rook ends up leaning heavily on Nick, legs barely able to support him for a few steps before they buckle. The second they’re out of the door Jess is on his other side, a quiet presence but just as solid. He’s taller than both of them so it isn’t easy, every step painfully slow and sending agony lancing through his muscles.

He feels pathetic, knocked down to someone who needs to rely on people like this, and it makes it hard to keep his head raised as they walk through the bunker.

There are people around, members of the Whitetail Militia. Each of them armed, some more than others. They all watch him as he goes by, curious and wary. A couple give him sharper looks, and he sees the bruises on their faces, an arm he wagers is broken, a flinch. Jess glares at them and they look away.

“Not too far,” Nick says as they approach a set of stairs, Boomer trotting up ahead of them.

They’re in a bunker, then. Good place to have their base at; harder to find than a building that can be spotted from the air, and must be working out for them since Jacob’s yet to find it. The downside is the lack of exits and space. If enemies stormed the place, there are two choke points readily available and as tough as the bunker doors might be, once they’re open there’s nothing stopping someone dropping a few grenades in. Positives and negatives.

The most relevant negative at the moment is the fact that they have to climb out.

Rook groans at the sight of the stairs. “This is gonna be fun.”

It isn’t fun. He almost tips backwards at one point, only Peaches sudden support at his back keeping him from toppling over. But eventually they make it out, sweat dripping down their faces, and in the blinding sunlight he spots the Carmina parked blessedly close. They get him against the side of the plane, taking a brief break before they’ll make the attempt to lift him in.

Eli comes up behind them and clears his throat.

“Good to see you on your feet, Deputy.” He’s keeping his distance. The heavy bruising and deep cut on the bridge of his nose gives Rook a clue as to why. There isn’t any resentment in his eyes, though. Plenty of caution, but his words seem genuine.

Nick shifts in front of Rook before he can respond. “Look man, I get that you’ve got super important shit to talk about, but that can wait. I told you already-”

“I know, now’s not the time, I get it,” Eli placates. His eyes are on Rook, still slumped against the plane since he’s too exhausted to stand up straight. “But we’re desperate. We’re bleedin’ bodies up here, no two ways about it, and I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to hold out. So you get your head on straight, Deputy, and I’d be grateful if you could come back here afterwards.”

_You owe us,_ Rook hears what Eli doesn’t say. Maybe doesn’t even intend, but it comes across anyway. Jess tenses in a way that reminds him of Peaches getting ready to lunge, and he taps his boot against her ankle to get her to stand down. She shoots him a disgruntled look and doesn’t shift from her hostile stance. It’s almost enough to make him smile.

But Eli is waiting for an answer.

Rook nods, because he’s never liked owing people. Besides, he was intending on helping them out anyway. Two birds with one stone. He can’t approach the thought with as much enthusiasm as normal. Head hurts too much, eyes squinting against the sunlight, and he wants to sleep for a hundred years.

Things get hazy. Jess and Nick getting him in the plane. A bark from Boomer, then he and Peaches following Jess away. The plane rumbling around him, ground and sky blurring together, and Nick’s voice talking about everything and nothing as they make their way to Holland Valley.

Next thing he knows, Nick is trying to encourage him to climb out of the plane. Rook forces uncooperative limbs into movement, pushes against the sides of the cockpit as his arms tremble from his weight. Kim’s voice, low and concerned, and a yell when Rook almost tumbles straight out the plane. Nick catches him at the last second, breath knocked out of him, arms around Rook and the smell of motor oil and sweat.

They get him to the couch somehow. There isn’t enough left in him to look around, to think of threats and weapons and weakness. There are soft cushions under him, worn fabric under his hands, and the relief makes him shake. Someone puts a blanket over him - a brush of fingertips against his forehead, pushing his hair back with a gentleness he freezes under - and Rook drifts in that half-conscious state, too high-strung to fall asleep entirely.

Time must pass, because it gets darker. The radio is on, a low rumble of old tunes - nothing that grates against his mind, that pulls at the red - and Kim is sitting nearby, gaze on the book in her hands. She’s humming along to the radio, but after a while she feels him looking and glances up. Surprise widens her eyes, then a warmth he doesn’t know what to do with. Doesn’t deserve.

She gets up, the shape of her pregnancy all the more obvious for it. Nick’s left him alone with her. She isn’t holding a gun, not even a knife on her. It makes his fingers twitch.

He watches her as she brings him a glass of water from the kitchen. She helps him take it, tone soft and gentle. Kind, as she asks him how he’s feeling. He doesn’t know what he answers with, but she brings him soup next. Makes sure he eats until his stomach protests, and only then does she relent. There’s still half a bowl left.

Kim asks if there’s anything he wants, and he croaks out a request for a shower. He needs to get clean. Needs to get off the blood and sweat and accumulated filth from days of being tied to a chair, then locked up in a room too incoherent to use the bucket left in a corner. His clothes are relatively clean - new ones, not his, and he shudders at the thought of someone dressing him - but not much else is.

He’s lead up the stairs, clutching the bannister, and Kim calls Nick in to help him up. Rook can’t muster more than a nod to Nick’s greeting, and the pressure of an arm around his waist doesn’t make him cringe. Too tired. Too- everything.

Somehow he gets in the shower, and with an awkward reluctance Nick leaves him to it. Says he’s just outside the door if Rook needs him. Rook’s fingers fumble with his clothes, with the shower knobs, but he manages it eventually. Braces himself against the tiles, and trembles under the spray. Closes his eyes because he can’t watch the dirt being washed away this time. Can’t look.

Instead, he scrubs against his skin until it’s pink and raw. Scours layers away so only the clean parts are left, only the _right_ parts. He can’t get rid of the bruising and cuts on his wrists, chest, legs, face- but he can make them fresh, make it bleed so they’re _his_ instead.

There’s a pressure in his chest, winding around his lungs and pressing tighter, and he can’t stop. He needs it off him. He needs to be clean, to be new. He needs to leave it behind.

When he’s finished, every inch of him hurts. But it’s a good hurt. A clean one. He’s better now, he made himself better.

He’s better.

Nick doesn’t seem to think so, because he takes one look at Rook - dressed in borrowed clothes now, too big to be Nick’s - and his expression is gutted. “Rook,” he says, reaches for him like it hurts, and Rook watches distantly as his shoulder is gripped. Pulled forward into a hug, loose enough that Rook could move away if he wants to.

Rook doesn’t want anything right now. He’s better.

Kim and Nick are quiet and careful as they sit him on the couch. They’re talking to him, or around him, it’s hard to tell. He lets his head tip back until he’s slumped against the couch, and their voices wash over him in low, soothing waves. Loud enough to dull the whispers which hide under the fog keeping him calm and empty.

Time passes.

Gravel kicks up outside. A car engine goes silent, and a door slams shut. Then there are nails scrabbling at the Rye’s door, Nick says something amused and opens it, and Boomer races for Rook with his tail wagging a mile a minute. He wastes no time in jumping up on the couch and licking at Rook’s face, to Nick’s vocal disgust.

Rook’s mouth hurts, and it takes him a while to realise he’s smiling. Doesn’t take as long for him to bury his fingers into Boomer’s fur and set a hand on Peaches’ head when she rests her chin on his knee.

“Thought you said you’d watch ‘em, not bring them here,” Nick says to Jess as she walks through the door. “Who gave you the go-ahead to turn my house into a goddamn zoo?” He sounds annoyed but there’s too much relief for it to be real.

Jess shrugs nonchalantly, doing a quick scan of the room before her eyes pause on Rook. “They missed him. Wouldn’t stop whinin’ and poutin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” Rook says, voice a little clearer now. Too empty, though, and he waits for the strange looks.

They don’t come. Instead, Kim smiles and offers her hand out to Boomer, who’s more than happy to have two people petting him. “It’s fine. We can handle a couple more surprise guests, can’t we?” She darts a warning look at Nick.

“Of course! I didn’t mean-” He raises his hands in surrender, then drops them and clears his throat, gaze shifting to Rook. “It’s all good, man. Though, uh, the cougar ain’t gonna try eatin’ us, right? ‘Cause it kinda looks like it wants to.”

Peaches purrs when Rook digs his fingers into the spot behind her ears, turning back to him as her eyes half-close with contentment.

It makes Jess snort. “Peaches is a fuckin’ softy. Just don’t piss Rook off and she’ll keep to her peggie-only diet.”

“She eats them?” Nick goes a little green, and Jess grins viciously.

“Sure does.”

Jess apparently decides that’s a fine note to end things on, because she doesn’t linger for much longer, citing a need to “make sure the peggies don’t get cocky without you around to terrify the shit out of them” on her way out. Rook would wave in goodbye but he can’t bring himself to stop petting Boomer and Peaches. They’re probably the only thing keeping him present right now, and as much as he hates relying on anything so much, he thinks it might be okay with them.

And when Nick collapses on the couch beside him, eyeing Peaches nervously whilst Kim goes back to her book, he thinks it might be okay to rely on the Ryes, too. Just for now.


	15. Chapter 15

As much as every aching inch of him would like to, Rook can’t lay on the Rye’s couch forever.

He gives it three weeks. Three weeks to piece himself together and start getting back into shape. He’s lost a few pounds from days of starvation, and it’s taken muscle mass with it. It isn’t enough time to build it back up, not even close, but he makes a start and clears out the Rye’s kitchen to a surprising lack of protest. He promises anyway that he’ll refill their supply, and earns rolled eyes for it.

Each morning he forces himself to get off the couch and go for a run. His body hates him for it, and he’s a sweaty mess by the end. Just acts as a harsh reminder of how much only a few days of being out of commission can weaken him. He’s human, and while he likes to ignore that inconvenient fact, he has all the same limitations. Leave him strapped to a chair for days and he’ll be affected just like anyone else would. Pushing himself back to the physicality he’s used to, the one he needs, isn’t going to be quick or easy.

The Ryes try to stop him, make attempts to get him to rest. And Rook does rest. He doesn’t run off to fight any cultists, or burn down their shit. He stays at the airfield, sits through a few visits from Grace and Sharky and Hurk, all of them earnestly - confusingly - concerned about him. He doesn’t know how to react, not when he isn’t properly in control yet, so he’s mostly quiet while they speak.

They tell him about how things are going. About Hurk and Sharky going after some helicopter pilots for Hurk’s mom and the many, many times they get sidetracked. About how more people have moved into Fall’s End, how Grace is helping them build up suitable defences in case John decides to go after the town again.

John, who’s been unusually quiet lately, barely any of his people seen apart from routine patrols, supply runs, and a heavy guard around the ranch and his bunker. No more kidnappings and baptisms, at least as far as Grace knows.

It worries her. Makes her think he’s planning something big.

Rook wonders what she’d say if she knew about the phone calls. Everyone in the county knows the Seeds are- focused on him, but they know less about his own reaction to them. Most have let what happened at the sermon pass without comment, Grace dismissing it as reckless taunting and Whitehorse seeming to have resigned himself to not having a clue what’s going on in Rook’s head.

If they knew everything…He doubts Grace would see him as a friend anymore. Same for the Ryes, and Jess and everyone else he’s somehow picked up as allies. Dutch wouldn’t call in with updates anymore, a helpful presence pointing out anything in the area that could do with his attention, or commentary on how Eden’s Gate got to where they are today, filling in the gaps of Rook’s knowledge. No one would cross the county at the drop of a hat, ready and willing to help him out.

Best he keeps that part of his interactions with the Seeds to himself.

He almost feels bad about it when the Ryes are being so kind to him. He doesn’t understand it, and can’t bring himself to ask them to explain. Just lets it happen. Lets Nick share stories of the worst students he’s had, and his own disasters when he was a teenager learning to fly. Helps him build a cot from planks of wood and nails, steps in when Nick almost collapses the damn thing. Insists on doing it himself, sanding it down and painting it properly with tools that Nick fetches for him, and looking it over critically for any sharp edges or errant splinters. Listens to every baby name suggestion Nick can think up, most of them earning equally deadpan looks from both him and Kim.

Rook makes himself useful. Helps with dinner no matter how often he’s shooed away, and convinces Nick to let him assist with the Carmina’s maintenance. It ends up being pretty interesting. Nick’s an enthusiastic teacher, and now Rook knows a little more about planes he wonders how the hell he managed not to crash one by accident (doesn’t count if it’s on purpose).

Rook gives Boomer and Peaches a proper bath with Kim’s help, and ends up with her laughing at him when he gets covered in suds and water as Peaches hisses in displeasure. Patches up the new rips on his gloves using red thread and bits of an old jacket of Nick’s, and winds up with a pile of clothes on the couch beside him that have holes in them and need sewing up.

It’s- nice. They don’t push him when he can’t find the right words and falls silent in the middle of a sentence. Don’t look at him strangely when his expression stays too flat, tone monotone and unnatural. At the second dinner his hands start shaking so violently he can’t hold the knife and fork, and Kim switches without pause to eating the food with her fingers, Nick following in short order.

He wakes up with nightmares every night, screams trapped behind his teeth and _ragefearhurt_ crackling through him, and the Ryes don’t stop him from bloodying his knuckles on the sandbag he’s commandeered to burn off the worst of it. Kim just waits until he’s done, panting and worn out, and helps him bandage up his hands.

They’re good people, and Rook doesn’t know why they look at him like he belongs here, in their home.

In that third week, sitting on the couch massaging Kim’s calf after a cramp hits her hard, listening to her vent about the aches and pains of pregnancy and nodding in the right places with an unexpected sympathy, he knows he’s getting too attached. It’s time to go before it gets worse.

They’re reluctant to let him leave, try to convince him to stick around a while longer. Rook cites the shitshow that is Hope County as the reason he’s got to go. Can’t leave the Resistance to face the big bad cult without their hero, after all.

Kim drags him down into a hug. He hunches over awkwardly, far too tall to do this comfortably especially with Kim’s baby bump in the way. He’s gotten used to physical contact over the last few weeks so he doesn’t freeze up, not after the many times the Ryes helped him around, or those little, casual touches they share with him so freely. He makes an attempt at returning the embrace and shoots a glare at Nick when he snickers.

“You take care of yourself, you hear me?” Kim draws back to give him a stern look. “And you better visit more often. The county can survive without you for five minutes, and don’t you let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She doesn’t let him escape until he solemnly promises to stop by soon. Nick is easier to get away from, although he insists on hugging Rook too, slapping him hard on his back before letting Rook go. He isn’t allowed off the property before being loaded up with a rifle and bulletproof vest, along with plenty of ammunition, even as Rook assures him that he’ll pick up his own weapons on his way back to the Whitetails.

He’s sure he still looks vaguely bemused as he walks down the road, Boomer and Peaches trotting along beside him. There’s a confusing bundle of emotion in his chest, one he doesn’t have the energy to untangle right now. He just knows that he’d happily burn the world down for the Ryes.

“You too,” he tells Peaches and Boomer, patting Peaches’ head when she brushes against his hip. They’re definitely on the list of those he gives a shit about. Short list, but in these past weeks it’s doubled in size. Which terrifies him when he thinks about it for too long, so he doesn’t.

He’s trying not to think too much about anything right now. He’s better. A lot better, in comparison to a few weeks ago. But he’s also in that weird space where everything is just a bit too distant, not quite real, and he knows it’s a bad idea to linger here for long. He needs to wake himself up, and there’s no easy way to do that.

(There are better ones. There’s Denise’s hand in his hair, running through it as she types away on her laptop with the other hand, her music playing so quiet he almost can’t hear it. There’s being with someone who knows him, sees him as he is and still wants him around. There’s knowing he’s as safe as he’ll ever be, and he’s somewhere he can let everything fade for a little while. Stop trying so hard to be the masks he hides himself under.)

So it’s not the best time for his newly switched on radio to crackle with an incoming message from John Seed.

_“Deputy Rook.”_ First thing he notices is that John sounds aggravated, voice tight and impatient. Like maybe he’s been trying to get into contact with Rook for a while, a theory given credence by the almost bored, rehearsed air of the rest of his broadcast. _“I have something of yours. If you’d like it back, come to the ranch whenever it is_ convenient _to you. I’ll be waiting.”_

Rook’s finger taps against the radio. The hell is John talking about? There’s been no panicked calls from the Resistance about anything important being stolen, or anyone important going missing. The only person Rook can think he means is Hudson, but why would John phrase it like that rather than naming her outright? And Rook already knows John has her, so it doesn’t make sense to taunt him - weakly - like this. Or move her to the ranch, which is much harder to defend than a near-impenetrable bunker.

“Think it’s a trap?” he asks Boomer, who wags his tail and barks back happily. After their last talk, it doesn’t seem too likely. John hadn’t sounded like he was on the ‘kidnap and torture Rook’ train anymore. But hey, who knows. He could’ve had a change in heart.

And maybe Rook isn’t in the best shape to be going into this. Still weaker than he’d like, still on edge and either unable to keep still for more than a few seconds at a time, or barely moving at all. Maybe he should be taking this slow, easing into things until he’s got a handle on his own mind again.

But it’d be rude to ignore such a clear invitation.

* * *

Like Grace said, the closer he gets to the ranch, the more cultists there are.

It drives him into the relative shelter of the trees, watching planes and the occasional helicopter pass overhead. There are a few patrols out here too, moving in tight formations and holding their weapons with tense foreboding in every inch of their frames. They watch the trees, paranoid in a way he’s never seen them. It takes some actual effort to sneak past undetected.

What’s got them so spooked?

He spends a while observing one patrol, hoping they’ll say something to give him a clue, but there’s barely any chatter apart from sharp orders and reminders not to let their guards down. Getting an answer would be easier if he interrogated a cultist, but every patrol keeps checking in with each other with ridiculous frequency. They’ll know in minutes that he’s taken one group down, and then he’ll be swarmed by angry cultists when he’s still so under-dressed. Better to save his curiosity for later, after he’s found out what John is up to.

Seeing the ranch sends an odd wave of nostalgia through him. Seems like years ago that he was last here. So much shit has happened in such a short space of time, a rapid pace he thrives in even as it tries to drag him under. The past few weeks have been a rare reprieve, and one that’s left him itching for something- more.

He sets himself down to wait until night falls, finding a good vantage point where he can watch the ranch.

Doesn’t take long for it to become pretty damn clear that if this is a trap, it’s a confusing one. There’s hardly any guards at all, just a few on the road leading up to the ranch and more dotted along the treeline. All too far from the lodge to be much good if anyone gets inside. Maybe John isn’t really there, so they’ve kept the guards sparse and better utilised them elsewhere.

Then John himself walks onto the balcony and blows that idea out of the water.

“Is he stupid?”

Peaches and Boomer offer no opinion to Rook’s muttered question.

But really, is he? Because it’d be real fucking easy to snipe John right now. He’s standing there without a care in the world, the blue shirt making him impossible to miss against the wooden lodge. He leans with his back against the railing, head tipping up, and Rook is too far away to make out his expression. He imagines something smug or threatening as a placeholder, and resists the childish urge to point his finger like a gun and mime shooting John.

It’s tempting to go down there now, maybe shout up at John and scare him into falling off his own balcony. Wouldn’t kill him, probably, but it’d be funny.

But Rook is going to do the smart thing (relative to the situation). He waits until it starts to get dark, and uses the cover to reduce the chances of any guards spotting him, Peaches and Boomer on their way over to the lodge. No one sounds the alarm, and the few seconds of being out in the open pass quickly. He disables the two alarms set to call in reinforcements and communicate with other outposts, deciding to edge on the side of paranoid when it comes to this. Just in case it really is a trap.

Then the only thing left to do is go inside.

The doors are unlocked when he tries them, and he moves cautiously despite knowing from hours of observation that no one else is inside - or if they are, they’ve been hidden in one of the windowless rooms for hours. The place doesn’t look all that different from the last time he was here. Backwoods bachelor pad, with a hint of rustic chic. There are burning logs in the fireplace now, giving the room some heat it needs in the cool evening, summer finally beginning the shift to autumn. Place must be a bitch to keep warm, as big and open as it is, more windows than anyone with a brother formerly in the military should be willing to have.

Peaches slinks in beside him, Boomer bringing up the rear. Both know to keep quiet and stay close to him. They read his moods better than any human, to the point where he hardly needs signals anymore. He still brushes his fingers over their heads in a final warning not to attack unless he says so.

His boots are silent on the wooden floorboards as he checks out the ground floor. Nothing sticks out to him as suspicious. The lodge isn’t rigged to blow, no cultists lying in wait or Judges hiding behind their stuffed cousins. Before long he’s heading upstairs to the double doors he kicked through last time. They’ve since been repaired, the lock shiny and new. A greater change is that the doors have been left open.

He keeps his rifle in hand as he walks through the doorway. The corridor opens up to the living area at the end, with the couches and dining table taking up only a small portion of the open space. Every other door along the corridor is closed, including John’s office. He pauses outside it, listening for a moment.

A waste of time, considering he hears John talking in a frustrated tone up ahead.

“-really telling me that you still haven’t caught even a _glimpse_ of him yet?”

Rook slows, gesturing Peaches and Boomer back to his heels.

“And whose fault is that? It’s been weeks, and there’s been nothing. You _know_ he’s never this quiet for so long. Not until you took him and put him through that fucking trial of yours!” The shout is punctuated by the sound of glass shattering, shards of it scattering across the floorboards. “If you’re hiding him, I swear I will-”

A pause. “Don’t you bring him into this,” John hisses, and Rook’s nearing the end of the corridor now. There’s no one else in the room but John with his back to him, a phone to his ear. “I know he isn’t pleased with you either. Joseph said to wait until the time was right, and you didn’t listen, you thought you _knew better_.”

John falls silent as whoever is on the other side - Rook’s guess is Jacob - responds.

“And how did that work out for you?” John’s voice is cruel and mocking, hand clenched into a fist at his side and every muscle tensed to the point it looks painful. “For all we know your little experiment backfired, and now he’s-”

Rook lowers the rifle’s barrel down to face the ground and clears his throat.

The sound makes John visibly startle. He spins on his heel to face Rook, those pretty blue eyes of his going wide with undisguised shock.

“-brain dead,” he concludes weakly.

“Hey, John. Long time no see.” There really isn’t anyone else here. Just John Seed, strands of hair falling loose from it’s usual slicked back appearance, like he’s ran his fingers through it one too many times. He’s discarded the vest at some point since the balcony, and his revolver is on the coffee table rather than the holster at his hip, leaving him completely unarmed.

It’d be real easy to kill him right now. Temptingly so. But then Rook catches sight of the backpack on the table, _his_ backpack, and he sets that thought aside and walks over to it.

His gear is on the table, all of it. Weapons and armour he’d considered gone for good. The pack has obviously been rifled through but nothing’s missing, and his clothes are neatly folded up by someone else’s hand. Resting on the table are the sunglasses he stole from John, sitting inside the open case he started carrying them in to avoid them ending up broken when left in his pack.

It makes him look over at John, who’s still staring at him like he can’t quite comprehend that Rook is in front of him. He’s shaken out of it by whatever Jacob says next.

“Something’s come up, I’ll speak to you later.”

He ends the call, and there’s a minute tremble to his hand when he puts the phone down. “Rook-” he starts, doesn’t seem to know what to say next. “You’re here,” he finishes, a little breathlessly, and his eyes are tracking over Rook’s face with an intensity he’s more used to seeing in Joseph.

“You did invite me.” Rook leans back against the table and rests the heels of his palms on it, rifle set aside. “Here I am.”

There’s nothing composed about John right now, and it’s kind of fascinating to witness. He can’t seem to stand still, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously and weight shifting between each foot, a restlessness to him that’s barely restrained. It makes Rook think of the bunker, when John was all dramatic gestures and sweeping movements, a world apart from who he is right now. Or the same person, just stripped back a few layers.

“I did,” John says, nods as if reminding himself, and then he sees Peaches moving slowly to place herself in the perfect position to lunge. It makes John tense up again, spine straightening. “You brought your- pets.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Boomer trots over to his side, and Rook can’t help the small, fond smile he gives when Boomer’s tail starts wagging the second he notices Rook’s attention.

“No, it’s fine,” John says hurriedly. Seems to regret it a moment later, an almost imperceptible wince that he covers up with a charming smile. The way he settles into himself is a visible change, shoulders loosening and stance shifting to something a bit more open. “I’m glad you decided to come. After so many weeks with no response, I’d begun to think you never would.”

“Surprise.”

John isn’t used to seeing Rook so subdued, and it shows. He recovers quick, at least. “I suppose you made your way here without much trouble?” He gestures to the radio set on the coffee table, a slight wryness warming his tone. “The absence of the panic that follows when several teams abruptly go silent is a welcome change.”

“Killing them wasn’t necessary.”

A brief flicker of that nervousness again, sharper this time. It’s funny how things have…flipped since the bunker. Neither of them are tied up, but Rook has the clear advantage here. Doesn’t matter that John’s phone and radio is in reach. He’s only a few metres away from Rook, an easy distance to cross within seconds, never mind the use of weapons. Weakened as Rook is, it’s not enough to dull his lethality so much that John could win a fight between them.

And John knows it.

“Well, I’m grateful you decided to employ a little moderation on this occasion. And as you can see, this is no trap set out to ensnare you.” He regains some of his confidence, thumbs hooking in his belt loops and an easy smile on his face. It almost looks natural. Been working on that people mask, then.

“Everything you lost to Jacob has now been returned to you. I think you’ll find that not a single item is missing.” _There better not be,_ his undertone adds, a threat directed to whoever John ordered to fetch all this. Or maybe Jacob himself, going by the phone call.

Which really was interesting to hear. In his head he’d had an idea of them as a solid unit, following Joseph’s will unerringly with little in the way of infighting. Seeing the tension between John and Faith gave him a hint towards more of a casual dynamic, with the typical stresses of one, but could’ve been dismissed as Faith being the relative newcomer vying for her place. But it’s clear that John is angry at Jacob and not afraid to let him know it. That they don’t simply box up any hostility and leave it to fester, instead airing it - loudly.

Most interesting is that it’s Rook causing this argument. That John heard about what Jacob did to Rook, and is somehow against the attempt to-

What? Control him? Turn him into an obedient weapon? Rook will be honest, if only with himself; he’s been trying not to think too hard on it. His temper is…fraying at the moment, buried just inches under the fog of dissociation, and he knows he makes bad decisions when he gets angry. Reckless ones. As much as he doesn’t care about throwing his own life away, there are people who would, and Rook owes it to them to try not to get himself killed so easily.

Rook glances pointedly at the neat rows of his things. “Missing just one item. My phone.”

“Yes, that.” John raises a hand in a placating gesture. “I have your phone as well, no need to worry. I’m simply holding on to it for now. I can’t have you leaving before you hear me out.” He’s better now at hiding the slight anxiety wired through his words and body language, but it’s there in the way his weight shifts back to his heels and the small raise of his shoulders, in the careful way he’s watching Rook.

Admittedly, it makes a change for the threat to keep Rook here to be over a phone, instead of violence or the life of another person. And it’s clear that John doesn’t want it to sound like a threat. He’s…given up the control he usually has by virtue of armed cultists at his command or the use of various methods to weaken the other party.

It’s just him, alone and with - at most - the potential retaliation from his brothers to act as an incentive to keep him alive. Because he has to know that the phone is an acceptable loss. Not an easy one, not when it’s his only real method of keeping in contact with Denise considering he’s been unable to find any satellite phones, and the Resistance has had no luck in getting a signal.

Or Rook could make a different decision. He could try forcing an answer from John, could kill him and just search the lodge for it. He has a very consistent record of violent behaviour, after all.

Instead, he stays in the unconcerned lean against the table and tilts his head. “I’m listening.”

The response takes a moment to register, like John is expecting an entirely different one. Then he straightens, and the surprised smile that flashes across his face is a little too real for Rook to know what to do with. The smooth, picture-perfect one that follows is easier.

“Good, that’s- good.” He clasps his hands together and glances towards the window. There’s not much to see. It’s dark now, view overlaid with the reflection of the room inside. “Have you eaten yet?”

The non sequitur prompts a raised eyebrow. John doesn’t falter, and after a moment Rook shakes his head. He had a sandwich that the Ryes sent him off with, but that was several hours ago now.

John looks pleased by the lacklustre answer. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve been told that I’m quite the cook, and I have the advantage of a fully stocked kitchen. It won’t take me long to put together something simple. In the meantime, why not make use of the facilities and change back into your own clothes? I’ve been informed by a very reliable source that the shower is certainly worth a visit.”

The tentative, friendly teasing is more confusing than the offer itself. John wants to- what, get his guard down? Make him more receptive to whatever he has to say? It’s not a terrible strategy, just an odd one considering every previous interaction.

But at the end of the day, Rook is ruled by his curiosity.

So he stands up, grabbing his backpack and putting everything on the table inside it for now, exchanging the rifle for his own and tucking the pistol into the waistband of his jeans. Not the smartest place to put it, but the safety is on and it’s just for until he straps on the holster.

When he looks over, John has his mouth open as if he’s about to protest - and shuts it when Rook moves closer. Rook makes as if to pass him by but pauses and looks back, turning his body slightly. The action has his upper arm brushing against John’s shoulder, who stills at the contact.

“It won’t be a problem if Boomer and Peaches keep an eye on things for me while I’m getting ready, will it?”

John swallows, gaze flickering over Rook’s face, never pausing in one place for long but not looking away, either. “It isn’t an issue. They can come with me, I’ll- I can get them something to eat as well. There’s various meats, or fish if they’d prefer that?”

Rook clasps his shoulder, feels the muscles jump under his palm. “Either’s fine. Just make sure to keep your distance once you put the food down.” He smiles, flat and cold, and it makes John flinch. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

With a short, low whistle to Peaches and Boomer - the command for _Keep watch,_ one he’s used often enough that both of them know it well - Rook makes his way out of the room.

He hears a shaky exhale when he leaves.


	16. Chapter 16

The shower is just as heavenly as he remembers it.

Rook spends a long time enjoying the hot spray, stealing some body wash and shampoo again - though this time he technically has permission, so it is really stealing?

The thought makes him snort. God, this is a weird situation. How does he keep ending up in them?

At least this time he can’t blame himself entirely. John’s the one acting strange, inviting him to dinner of all things and being so accommodating. He didn’t even threaten Rook once in that entire conversation. And sure, the phone call a while ago gave a good indication that John was serious about attempting to earn Rook’s trust, but Rook doesn’t see how he’ll ever manage it. More likely, John will get frustrated over the lack of progress and blow up at him, try drugging him or something like that. Drugs seem the Seeds go-to solution when things aren’t going their way.

Putting on his clothes and armour, Rook doesn’t look too long on the healing scrapes covering most of his skin. He feels better once he’s covered up in his own gear, each layer and slide of a knife or gun into their holster helping to make him feel like himself again.

He ties his hair back and allows himself a small smile, pleased that there’s no damage to any of his equipment. Since it’d been in Jacob’s hands and then John’s, he half-expected to find it sabotaged. But everything looks as it should, no damaged straps or ammunition that shows signs of tampering, or even any nicks in the blades.

He keeps his bag with him as he heads back to the living space. Ends up pausing in the entryway, taking in the changes made over the past half hour. The area looks as if it’s been tidied up, John’s gun gone from the coffee table along with the messy stack of papers Rook had only half-registered. There are other touches - a rug’s been straightened, the curtains closed, a few ornaments in slightly different positions - but most prominent are the couple of tea light candles in glass holders set on the dining table, alongside the checkered placemats.

Okay, then.

Peaches is lounging on the couch with the sated grace of a recently fed cat, claws digging into a dark leather couch that probably cost several thousand dollars. Her eyes half open when he approaches, casting him a baleful look until he rubs her head.

“Great job at guard duty,” he tells her. Sure, he trusts that if an actual threat showed up she and Boomer would let him know, and he’s fully willing to fight in a towel if he needs to (won’t be the first time). But it’d be nice to see her acting like they’re in enemy territory, rather than as if they’re still at the Ryes.

She does at least perk up when there’s footsteps in the hallway, eyes opening fully and head lifting.

John strides into the room, two plates in hand and Boomer bounding in a second later. He doesn’t falter when he sees Rook other than to make a slow scan over his body, no doubt taking in the amount of weaponry he’s got strapped to him. It doesn’t affect the smile he gives as he passes by Rook and sets the plates down.

“I hope you like stir fry,” he says, as if this is perfectly normal and he doesn’t see any issue with putting his back to Rook. His hair has been slicked back again, appearance neatened just like everything else in the room. “Rather simple, I know, but you didn’t give me much warning.”

The smell hits before Rook can answer. And damn, if it doesn’t smell good. He’s drifting closer before he realises it, hunger making itself known with a gnawing in his gut.

There haven’t been any real food shortages, not when people have their own farms and supplies, and the Resistance is always happy to feed him. But it’s been more limited, and when Rook’s out in the woods for days he doesn’t exactly have the chance to cook a proper meal. The past couple weeks at the Rye’s had been a rare opportunity to eat home-cooked meals, and he’d assume it’d be a while before his next one.

“Looks good,” he says simply, moving around the table to take a seat where his back is to the wall, one without a window. It leaves John directly across from him and gives Rook a clear view down the hallway. In a room this open, it’s the most he can do to be less of an easy target while still sitting at the dining table. He sets the rifle down to rest against his chair leg alongside his backpack, within easy reach if anything goes wrong.

There’s a jug of water on the table, and Rook pours himself a glass as John hesitates. Maybe he isn’t sure what to do with Rook deciding to take this whole bizarre situation in stride. The idea sparks amusement, duller than it usually is. At least it’s there.

“Would you like anything else to drink?” John eventually offers, apparently committed to his role as the perfect host. It’s a strange one to see John in. Doesn’t fit as well - probably a mask he doesn’t use a lot, or at least hasn’t in a while. “I’m afraid there’s no alcohol, though,” he adds with an aborted grimace.

Right, Eden’s Gate doesn’t allow alcohol. John used to be quite the drinker, didn’t he? Alcohol and drugs and anything he could say yes to. Must’ve been a big adjustment, coming here.

“I’m fine with water. I don’t drink.”

“Oh?” John seems surprised by that.

The corner of Rook’s mouth twitches up briefly. “Don’t like the taste.”

In reality, it’s hard to enjoy alcohol when any loss of control leaves him twitchy. That’s when he isn’t remembering the stink of cheap beer and vodka that was a permanent fixture of his childhood. Didn’t stop him when he was a teenager, or on days when he doesn’t care enough to mind the lack of coherence, but most of the time he keeps away from it.

John gives a tight smile as he sits, like he can see there’s more to it than what Rook’s saying. That’s fine. He doesn’t push, and Rook can appreciate the show of restraint. It obviously isn’t easy for him.

Maybe Rook will be nicer than he was initially going to be. The man is feeding him, after all.

“D’you say grace before meals?”

His question makes John blink. “Yes, is it- is that something you do as well?” He seems almost eager - looking for any common ground? Or testing whether Rook could be easier to convert than expected?

Rook shakes his head. “Not since I was a kid.” His mom always insisted on it, when she was sober enough to put together a meal and his dad wasn’t around. He hated anything to do with religion, said anyone who believed in God was delusional or desperate, or both. Taking Rook to church for years was one of the few ways his mom ever rebelled against him. Aside from Rook’s birth, anyway.

“All this time, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked whether you’re religious,” John observes with a self-deprecating smile. There’s a harsh edge to it, an annoyance at how little he knows about Rook. Rook doubts that John has ever had to work all that hard at getting information on people. What money and influence can’t buy, an attractive face and the right amount of intense focus will take care of with ease.

And huh. Yeah, no one has asked about him being religious. The closest any of the Seeds have come to discussing Rook’s own beliefs is that first phone call with Joseph, where Rook confirmed he didn’t believe that the Collapse was real, at least as Joseph imagines it. It makes sense that John would be the one to do so. First person who knew Michael Rook was a lie, to learn his name actually _is_ Rook, and to hear what motivates him to stay here.

For all that John’s revealed a lot to him, he’s kind of done the same, hasn’t he?

It’s an unsettling realisation. One that has every instinct urging him to withdraw, to carefully protect the other pieces of himself, keep them safe from being used against him. But looking at John now, at the confusing amount of effort he’s putting into this and the vulnerable position he’s deliberately placed himself in…it’s hard to see him as purely a threat anymore.

What he actually is, Rook isn’t sure yet.

“I used to be, when I was a kid. Went to a Catholic church.” Start small. Little truths that don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. “Stopped believing by the time I was in my teens.”

“What changed?” John keeps his tone idle, but there’s a fierce curiosity in his eyes that he fails to smother. Quite the contradiction, John. So good at putting on masks and faking at suave charm, yet with such vivid emotions that often get away from him.

Rook’s kind of jealous that he feels so much he struggles to hide it. The opposite is more Rook’s problem; not feeling enough and having to fake it to make up for the gap. Especially when he’s a step removed from his emotions like he is now.

“Life.” Rook shrugs, just a little teasing. Can’t give everything away so easy. Before John’s frustration can really set in, he offers his hands out expectantly. “You mind leading?”

It only takes a couple of startled seconds for John to catch on. His hands are cool in Rook’s, and a faint, almost indiscernible tremor runs through them. They steady when John takes a breath and gives thanks in a short, succinct prayer. It’s another odd moment in an evening full of them, and Rook doesn’t look away from John throughout.

The moment he’s done, Rook lets his gaze drop and digs into the food without hesitation. John isn’t stupid enough to try drugging him, and even if he wanted to there are much better ways than putting it in food. Just take those Bliss tranquillisers as an example, or whatever Jacob dosed him with. The latter left him fucked up for days, a heaviness to his body that he’s only just managed to shake. Suitable alternative, his ass.

John wasn’t lying about being a decent cook - the food is damn good, helped by the fact that the ingredients are fresher and of better quality than anything Rook’s had in weeks. There are actual seasonings and flavours, another thing he’s been missing out on for the most part. So Rook isn’t at all ashamed to get through several forkfuls before John’s finished his first bite.

John doesn’t seem to know whether to look judgemental or pleased, settling somewhere between the two. It’s a weird look. Kind of unfair that he’s handsome enough to pull it off.

Waiting until he isn’t gonna be speaking through a mouthful of food - he has manners, _Denise -_ Rook gives an unapologetic shrug. “It tastes good. Feel free to talk at me all you want, but I’m making sure I finish this before something goes wrong.”

“Carry on as you were.” John waves a hand dismissively, and his expression has definitely settled on smug. “I haven’t had the opportunity to cook for someone in a while. Your reaction is quite flattering. Although, I do have to protest at your certainty that something bad is going to happen.”

John clears his throat, the sound making Boomer glance over from where he’s exploring the room. Boomer then decides he’s more interested in trying to join Peaches on the couch than their conversation. She isn’t having it, and Rook forces back an amused twitch of his lips. Best not to start grinning when John is looking so serious.

“No one will bother us here, I assure you. My family-” There’s a flicker of annoyance “-always send word ahead before unexpected visits. Meanwhile, my people will keep yours from interrupting, and they know better than to come inside the lodge when I’ve ordered them away. We have complete privacy.”

Rook eyes him critically. “Y’know,” he says conversationally. “That’s a real dumb thing to tell someone with a lot of incentive to kill you.”

“Then I’ll have to trust in your better nature.” John sounds perfectly calm. For all that he’s been nervous or wary tonight, he hasn’t ever been afraid of Rook.

For a moment, he considers changing that. Considers forcing John to realise he’s made the wrong call. Show John and the Seeds that for all that Rook’s been rather toned down throughout this, he’s just as capable of matching them in terms of the lengths he’ll go to. He doesn’t have a cause to fight for like they do, and without that hindrance there’s no such thing as a Pyrrhic victory. There’s just him and his imagination.

(There’s clawing helplessness closing up his throat. There’s choking back screams and hands on his arms, concern in familiar faces and the quick, desperate insistence that he’s okay, he’s _fine._ There’s the hazy uncertainty of not knowing what happened to him, of not being able to trust in his own mind. There’s sinking into the cold depths of static and numbness, pushing away everything that might hurt him.)

But the temptation is fleeting. He likes John, called him his favourite of the siblings and meant it. Killing or hurting him isn’t all that appealing.

Rook goes back to his food, and John releases a breath Rook didn’t realise he was holding. Still smart enough to be wary, then. Good.

“I know you must be wondering what I wanted to speak with you about,” John begins, setting his fork down and reaching for something at his side. Rook shifts in preparation, and relaxes again when he sees that it’s his phone being placed carefully on the table. No visible damage, or any new scuff marks on the plastic case. Definitely worth the ridiculous price considering all it’s been through lately.

“But first, I want you to know you have the freedom to leave at any time. If you wish, you can take your phone and walk out right now. I won’t try to stop you. Or you can stay, finish your meal, and talk for a little longer. The choice is yours.”

There’s anxiety in the set of his jaw as he waits for Rook’s response, and it only builds the longer the silence lasts. As if he expected Rook to get up the second he finished speaking.

Huh. He really is trying to get Rook to…what, feel comfortable? Or to not feel trapped and forced to be here, at least.

Rook reaches for his phone and gives it a quick check over. None of the obvious signs of tampering, but he doesn’t have the equipment to check for surveillance software. Once he turns it on he’ll be able to see if they got through the password protection. Then he’ll have to let Denise know and she’ll be able to take a look for him remotely.

Fuck, it’s been a while since he last checked in with her. Hopefully she hasn’t gotten worried about him. That always leads to yelling or getting his cover blown. However relevant that is anymore, considering the only semblance of ‘cover’ he has depends on the Seeds not getting chatty with the Resistance over who Rook really is. Shockingly, Rook doesn’t have high hopes for their magnanimity to last.

He slips the phone into his jacket, and wow, John isn’t even trying to hide his disappointment. His shoulders have slumped just a little out of that perfect posture, gaze dropping briefly and mouth pulled down into a frown. It only lasts a moment before he draws it into a bland smirk. “Thank you for staying this long, Deputy. You won’t encounter any trouble on your way out-”

“I’m not leaving.” Rook rolls his eyes and picks up his fork again. “I’m not gonna waste good food. Besides, you aren’t the worst company in the world.”

That grants him a brief respite as John processes his decision. Then he’s treated to a wide, startled smile that’s as far from polished as it gets, and all the more attention-grabbing for it. It doesn’t soften John’s sharp features, doesn’t make him seem any less dangerous, but it’s a side to him that Rook doubts many get to see. One Rook can’t help but be curious about.

The smile fades quickly into something more contained, and quietly triumphant. Like he’s won something in getting Rook’s agreement to stay. “You won’t regret this, I promise.”

“You still haven’t made it clear what you actually want to talk _about,”_ Rook prompts. He’s been deliberately vague about that part, even, and nothing else they’ve spoken of has been particularly pointed. Not like his previous interactions with the Seeds, every sentence designed to dig at his past and sway him to their way of thinking. Makes it confusing to know how to act around John, who instead seems so keen on maintaining a friendly civility.

“It’s quite simple, actually.” Then why does he sound so hesitant? “I’ve come to the realisation that I know very little about you. A large part of that is deliberate on your part, of course, but I haven’t done much to rectify my ignorance. I’d like to fix that now,” he says, a hopeful lilt to his voice.

Rook raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure you’ve tried to find out my secrets plenty of times.”

“Ah, but I’m not asking about your secrets,” he points out with the air of a recent revelation. “I’m asking about little, inconsequential details. Ones which will allow me to know you a bit better.”

“Like my favourite colour?”

“Exactly. Here, I’ll even go first. Mine is green.” He looks at Rook expectantly, his smirk just a little snide like he realises the oddness of the situation, yet is determined to go through with it. “And yours is..?”

An incredulous smile breaks free before Rook can stop it. “What is this, a first date?” He shakes his head, bemusement thrumming warm through him. Why is he so tempted to keep playing along? Weeks of being stuck in the Rye’s house must’ve gotten to him. “What the hell. My favourite colour is red.”

“Like blood? You do seem to end up covered in it rather often,” John observes wryly.

Rook snorts. “No, like sunrises.” He always makes the effort to catch them. Getting up early is an ingrained tendency he’s never managed to shake, not after years of needing to do so if he wanted to avoid his relatives - both before and after the Walkers took him. Then he was in the army, and waking up before dawn was at least easier to adjust to than taking commands was.

“And I try to keep clean,” he adds. “But it ain’t easy when you’ve got a whole county gunning for you.”

“As if you don’t seek out every one of those fights.” John glances down at Rook’s outfit, a speculative gleam to his eyes. “Former military? I can’t see how else you would be this proficient at killing, and even then it’s, well. Rather ridiculous. You have half my people convinced you’re in fact several teams of men who all happen to look very similar. Another popular theory is that the sinners are simply giving you the credit.”

“They better give me the credit when I’m doing most of the work.” Rook frowns, irritated at the idea of someone else claiming his hard work as their own. Sure, when he’s doing hits he doesn’t want everyone and their grandma knowing who did it, but that’s a very different situation to this one. Here, it’d be more like a rival pretending he’s the one who completed the hit and then getting the money for it. Always pisses him off.

And considering the amount of effort and time Rook’s put in? Fuck the cult for thinking it isn’t all Rook. Clearly he hasn’t been loud or obvious enough.

“Oh, they do. That recruitment poster of yours is…quite inspiring.”

The reminder startles a chuckle from Rook, annoyance clearing quickly. “You saw that too? I need to get my hands on one of those, the wanted poster too. A couple of souvenirs for all this.” He can add them to his wall of postcards. Hope County is definitely one of the most memorable places he’s ever been to, and it’ll be nice to have a physical reminder.

“You wouldn’t want to put all this-” John gestures vaguely in the direction of the window. “-behind you? If the Collapse weren’t inevitable, of course.”

“Of course.” Rook huffs softly. “As amazingly traumatising as this shitshow has managed to be, I don’t plan on forgetting a moment. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.” He pauses and considers John. Lets his mouth shift into a smirk. “Killing people for a living can get surprisingly mundane.”

John freezes when the words register, and it’s fascinating to watch the flicker of emotions across his face. Surprise, confusion, understanding, interest - and then something dark and heated that lingers in his gaze. “Is that why you came to Hope County? To kill someone?”

Rook hums. Joseph really didn’t reveal much of their conversation, did he? Wonder why. “Nah, nothing like that. I was injured on my last job so I came back stateside, got bored, and applied to be a junior deputy. Never anticipated anything like you and your family.”

“A challenge, you said.” John’s fingers smooth over his vest, straightening out small creases in an apparently unconscious action. “Something you’re incapable of resisting. The reason for your career choice, I assume?”

Nice that he didn’t immediately think it was for money. Shows John is paying attention. “Got it in one. Plus I’m really good at it, so that helps. You were a lawyer before coming to Hope County, weren’t you?”

John looks surprised by the question, but doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes, in Atlanta. Real estate and property law, mostly.”

“Bet that helped with buying up everyone’s land and kicking ‘em off it if they refused.” He can’t imagine the locals took John very seriously at first. Too pretty, too clean and rich. Even with the tattoos and scars, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy to tie someone to a chair and flay the skin off their chest. Don’t judge a book by its cover, huh?

“A harsher strategy was sometimes necessary, I’ll admit.” He looks far too satisfied for the sombre tone he uses. “But I doubt that’s news to you.” He takes a sip of water, the movement making his shirt settle so it shows more of the scar on his chest, a crossed-out _Sloth_ in prominent letters.

It reminds Rook of what John told him about his parents. About what Joseph’s book described. A child forced to admit to sins he never committed, facing punishment if he didn’t make something up to satisfy the demands. Being punished even when he did.

“Complicated sin, Sloth,” he muses, and watches how John tenses like a coiled spring. Not so keen on talking about his own sins, is he? “Too many definitions. Apathy, sorrow.” His gaze drops to the tattooed _Tristitia_ on the back of John’s hand, alongside the other sins in their Latin form. “Dejection. The refusal of the joy that comes from God. I don’t think you can be accused of having idle hands though, do you?”

John swallows hard, fingers clenching tight around his cutlery. Something about what Rook said struck a nerve. Something familiar, maybe?

“Whereas Wrath is far more straightforward.” John’s eyes are narrowed now, though he still wears a charming smile. “A sin you carry with such _ease.”_

“Do I, though?” Rook leans forward, head tilting to the side. “It’s only Wrath if it’s directed at innocent people, right? Otherwise it’s just anger, and that isn’t a sin.”

“And here I thought you weren’t the type of man to deny his sins.”

“This isn’t denial. This is-” Rook grins, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his palm. “-a discussion. You wanted to get to know me, didn’t you?”

John visibly bites back his first response. He takes in a steady breath, expression carefully neutral. “I’d hoped to avoid talk of sin considering your…less than enthusiastic responses to such talk previously.”

“It isn’t the sin part that bothers me.” Rook taps his fork idly against the plate. “It’s the atonement bit, I guess. I know you lot fully believe that the Collapse is coming, and yeah, I get the feeling that you’re actually pretty genuine about wanting to save people, get them ready for what comes after. Even if you go about it in fucked up ways. But it’s very…”

Rook shrugs. “Judgemental. Condescending. Y’know, thinking you have the right of it and can look down on me - I don’t like it when non-murderers do that, so you lot don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting me to change my ways, or whatever you’re attempting to do.”

“We aren’t looking down on you,” John insists, abruptly intense as he leans forward, gaze demanding in its focus. The blue of his eyes seems brighter somehow, and they’re close enough that it’s easy to make out each pale shade in his irises. “We want to offer you the chance at another path, one which will lead you to Eden. You’re meant to be there, standing at our side when we finally enter the new world. I won’t allow you to burn alongside the rest of the sinners who resist us. I can’t.”

“Why?” Rook searches John’s expression, looks for the cracks in his sincerity, for a hint of deception or a waver in his determination. Fails. “Why do you care so much?”

And John does care. It all but bleeds out of every word and gesture, heated emotion with a razor-sharp edge that he’s trying so hard to control around Rook. It’s in the genuine curiosity and interest when he listens to Rook speak, and the effort he’s gone to tonight. Rook can see that - he isn’t blind - but it’s really fucking hard to accept it as real, when every instinct he has tells him to look for the lie, the trick, for the moment when it’s revealed that this is just another attempt to use him.

“Because I-” John’s jaw works as he struggles to find the right words, frustration and something a lot like fear clouding his eyes. Not fear of Rook, though. Something else. “I could say it’s because you belong with our family, because you deserve to be redeemed and allowed a chance at seeing a world free from sin, but the truth of the matter is…” He exhales harshly through his nose, gaze darting away before he forces it back to Rook. “I want you to be there. With us. With- me, of your own choice. Because you want to be.”

A reason like that - a selfish one, a human one - isn’t what Rook had been expecting. Isn’t one he knows how to react to.

Just when John starts looking like he might throw his glass at Rook if he keeps his silence any longer, Rook speaks up.

“Being a contract killer doesn’t change any of that?”

Because c’mon, he honestly thought that’d have more of an impact. These guys might not have the best of morals, but Rook doesn’t even kill for a righteous cause or anything. He isn’t a soldier anymore, doesn’t have the excuse of fighting for his county against the ‘bad guys’. He just does it for a thrill, for _fun_ (to make things easier for a little while, quieter).

John just looks incredibly relieved, of all things. Was he anticipating being mocked, maybe? Or scolded for being selfish over- over Rook? Because he wants Rook around. Which, okay, Rook needs to actually think about that because what the _hell_ , how on earth did John end up wanting that?

He casts his mind back over every past interaction, and- yeah, alright, aside from the threats on both sides and pissing each other off, it hasn’t been entirely hostile? And he’s, well. In John’s home. Having dinner with him. Which he’s already finished, yet has made no move to leave.

Put it down to entertainment value, sure, but he’s vaguely horrified to find that there’s a part of him that’s just- really fucking okay with being here. That he almost feels comfortable with John. Not safe, because he isn’t a complete idiot, but far more settled than he should be. And he’s- well, he hasn’t been faking much at all this evening.

Shit.

“I admit that it isn’t ideal,” John says, teases like they’re friends or something, and the uncertainty of his smile shouldn’t have Rook feeling a little bad for being an ass. Goddamn it.

“However, I’ve…well, I’ve known for some time now that you are far more dangerous than you first appeared to be. Learning of this aspect of your past isn’t as surprising as you might think.” The way he looks at Rook is so ridiculously earnest, stripped of the arrogant bravado and even the charming mask. Just- him, honest and open. A look he should know better than to show an enemy.

But he isn’t treating Rook as an enemy. He hasn’t for a while now.

“It doesn’t change anything,” John says, voice low and determined and far more certain than it’s been all night. “Neither does the damage you’ve done to the Project. Even if I can’t convince you that the end is coming and our every action is necessary, _vital_ for our survival, know that there will always be a place for you. I will be there to prepare you for entering Paradise, to guide you when you need it most and ensure you are ready for the new world. When the Collapse comes, you won’t be turned away.”

And what the hell is Rook supposed to say to that?


	17. Chapter 17

True to his word, John doesn’t make any attempt to stop Rook from leaving.

Rook declines the offer of using one of the trucks parked out front, instead hiking a ways back through the forest until he comes across a van he can hotwire. Then he’s on his way back to the Whitetails, fingers tapping on the wheel alongside the calm beat of a cult song, something about building a castle and light shining.

So. That happened.

He isn’t sure how to feel right now. Confused, mostly. Wary, searching for some trap in John’s words but unable to find one, not with the memory of his raw sincerity so fresh in his mind. John isn’t the kind of person to say all that so carelessly, either. He means it, or at least thinks he does, and he said it all despite knowing Rook could turn it against him. Could use that shine of _want_ in his eyes and see how far he can push the promise of there always being a place for him, no matter what he did to the Project.

It won’t change anything. Rook isn’t gonna stop opposing the Seeds just because he likes John’s company. He isn’t important enough for that ( _yet,_ adds a traitorous voice in the back of his head. Room promptly ignores it). Things will keep going as they are, hurtling down the tracks towards a conflict that promises to be memorable, if nothing else.

He wants this. He wants to throw himself at the best the Seeds have to offer, wants to test himself and see how far they can push him in turn. He wants the anger, the excitement, the panic and amusement - all of it. He wants to keep feeling more alive than he has in ages.

Stopping isn’t an option.

The offer of- _something_ in John’s hesitant smiles and friendly teasing isn’t enough to stop him.

* * *

He was right. Denise totally starts yelling at him as soon as he assures her he’s in one piece.

_“I’m gonna fucking kill you. I’m gonna kill you, and it will be_ slow.” She cackles like the wicked witch she longs to be, and Rook imagines she’s painted her nails that sickly green she favours just for this conversation. _“You’ll regret ever being so suicidally idiotic as to make me worry about your stupid, perfectly rounded ass.”_

“Uh huh.” Rook pulls himself up onto the radio tower’s ledge, metal biting into his abdomen before he gets his feet under him.

He’d stopped by Dutch’s island on his way up north, looking for an update on everything that went on whilst he was out of the game. Ended up leaving with a better radio and the earpiece he’s trying out. The tiny microphone clipped to his shirt collar is decent, and not having to hold a radio or phone will be useful at times like this, when he’s in the middle of something that needs both hands. Also means that his radio going off with distress calls won’t be so fucking loud in a forest full of killer wolves and brainwashed hunters.

_“I’m gonna string you up and make you_ bleed. _You’ll bleed so pretty for me, Rooky boy, until you’re cold and grey and empty.”_

“Been chatting to A lately?” That sounds like a threat Amanda would make in one of her more talkative moods. Bit of an obsession with blood, and his in particular. Or maybe he just pisses her off a lot. She’s a hard read.

_“Don’t you try to distract me,”_ Denise snaps.

“Sorry, sorry. Keep on with the threats.” Rook gets out a screwdriver - he isn’t gonna dull one of his knives on this - to open up the signal box. Bunch of wires, don’t mess with those, few switches and ah, there it is. A hunk of black plastic which all but screams jammer. Far from his first radio tower de-jamming, Rook knows what these look like by now.

And if he’s wrong, well. Oops.

Dutch had let him know about the Whitetail Militia’s issue with jammers messing up any signal they try getting out. Hence why they went silent, unable to call for help as Jacob picked off their men and turned them into soldiers of his own. Too busy with their own issues to risk sending someone out to get aid from people they don’t trust anyway.

Dealing with the jammers is a good first step in helping the Whitetails fight back, since it’s kind of hard to coordinate people without any way to contact them once they’re outside a certain range. Even if it involves sending Rook up to the top of radio towers, an easy target to any wandering patrols and helicopters.

Hence having Hurk strolling around down below, ready to use his rocket launcher at the slightest prompting. Rook can hear him chattering away at Jess over the radio, the sound dulled so it doesn’t drown out Denise’s passionate description of breaking every bone in his body and making chess pieces out of his fingers and toes.

The mention of chess has him pausing for a split second, abruptly tuning back in to her rant. They don’t have a fully fledged code, not really, but Denise knows that any mentioned of chess means-

Well. Means things are going to shit, bad enough that she needs to warn him. And it’s not him specifically - would be just one piece then, the knight usually - so it’s affecting her too. And Rook thinks of her mentions of stormy weather, of the fact that she’s been by his house. Thinks of warnings he’s heard over the radio to limit travel to other countries, especially out east, following repeated failed peace talks. Radio hosts discussing escalating tensions and terror attacks and international conflict that has military bases on high alert.

He’d ask for more detail, but every word is being monitored. The only reason his phone still gets calls from out of the county is because of it’s potential value to the Seeds, and he isn’t going to push that. Not yet. If it was really bad, Denise would straight up say so.

“But you’re shit at carving,” he points out, fiddling with the connections holding the jammer in place. Gotta be careful not to fuck up the actual function of the tower, otherwise this’ll all be pretty pointless. “They’d be all uneven and no one would know what piece they’re supposed to be. Plus I don’t have enough fingers and toes to make up a full chessboard.”

_“You think I give a shit about the practicalities?”_ Denise snarls, but Rook can hear the smile in her voice. Can hear the underlying edge, too. _“You can’t talk me out of this one. I’ve made up my mind. Good luck shooting anyone when you haven’t got any fingers left, fuckface.”_

So whatever she’s warning him about, it isn’t something he can fight. That’s…worrying.

“I’d make it work.”

_“What’re you gonna do? Gross ‘em out until they give up and shoot themselves just to escape the sight of you?”_

“I’ve still got my face in this scenario, right? And my ass?”

_“Yeah, I guess.”_

“Then I’m good.” Rook rips the jammer out and tosses it over his shoulder. He’s too high up to hear it hit the ground - though he does catch Hurk’s startled yelp over the radio. Oops.

Denise snorts, and he knows exactly what she’s picturing. He’s had her telling him to use his ‘assets’ during more than one job when he made the mistake of having her on the comms. And okay, sure, he maybe gave in once or twice for the amusement value alone. The fact that it actually worked great at distracting people only encouraged her.

_“Are you? Good, I mean,”_ she says, abruptly serious.

Rook pauses at the edge of the radio tower. It’s up high to the west of the mountains, offering a decent view of the surrounding area. Can’t see the Grand View Hotel from here. He knows where it is, though. Had Dutch point it out to him on the big ass map he has, kept his expression carefully controlled as he marked it on his own crinkled map, ignoring the worried looks Dutch shot him.

Eli wants him to go there. Needs him to free one of his men who’s been taken like Rook was, after the cult took the hotel over again following Eli’s raid. Fair enough payment for getting Rook out of there, he figures. It’s just a shame he can’t borrow the Carmina and bomb the place to high heaven. Leave it a smouldering wreck, nothing remaining of the room he was kept in for days, stewing in the endless loop of drugs and killing.

Maybe after he gets the man out. Or he could call in Sharky, see how he feels about helping Rook set it on fire. Can’t see him turning down the opportunity. Cleansing fire, right?

“S’all sunny skies here,” he says cheerily, crouching to grab the rope tied to his grappling hook. Once he’s got a loose grip, he jumps off the edge of the tower.

The wind rushes through his hair as he falls. When he’s about halfway he tightens his grip on the rope, catching it between his heels to slow his descent. He can feel the friction through his gloves and hopes it won’t damage the material too much. He’s already had to patch up a tear from when a Judge nearly got its teeth around his neck. At least leather is in abundance around here, though searching for a needle and thread took him through four abandoned houses and a half-flooded bunker.

_“Rook.”_ Denise’s warning tone makes him grin. It’s familiar, the way her voice goes all low and hard, like she knows exactly what he’s doing and can see through every one of his lies. She’s always been good at that. _“Promise me you aren’t gonna do something dumb. Dumber than normal, anyway.”_

He hits the ground, letting his knees bend to catch the force of it. “What’s that? You’re- You’re breaking up, Denise. Can’t…kschh…can’t h-…you.”

_“Don’t you fucking dare-!”_

“Gotta…kschh…go.”

He ends the call before Hurk gets close enough to hear him. Time to destroy the last jammer.

* * *

And look. He’s fine, he really is. What’s a little more trauma on top of how fucked up he already is?

Really, it isn’t anything new. Jacob’s trippy red rooms simply rattled him a bit, made old stuff resurface. Kind of like every damn Seed encounter has lately, apart from the dinner with John. Which. He supposes it’s nice that John didn’t do something shitty to trigger him? Another point in the ‘huh, this guy is pretty alright’ column, alongside his shower and cooking skills.

But just because it isn’t new doesn’t mean Rook is a happy camper right now. He’s pissed at Jacob for thinking he could strip away all of Rook’s control and turn him into an obedient, mindless soldier. For the condescending encouragements that keep popping up in Rook’s head when he’s killing Jacob’s people, the reminders to watch his time when he’s putting down an outpost’s guards before reinforcements arrive. All in that calm, satisfied voice which never fails to make Rook especially vicious.

It’ll go away. That kind of shit will linger, sure, but Jacob only had him for a few days. The longer Rook is away from him, dipping into the Henbane to ruin a few of Faith’s operations along the way, the quieter his voice becomes. Helps that Rook switches channels whenever one of Jacob’s broadcasts play, shoots out the speakers of outposts when he really can’t put up with it.

And yeah, he knows it worries the people who run with him. They’re all aware of what happened, to various extents, and they’ve been around him long enough to tell when he isn’t acting quite right. Which, boy, is that a fun realisation.

Hurk tries asking about how he’s dealing once or twice in that rambling way of his, spends most of it insulting Jacob in increasingly inventive ways, while Sharky comes up with a list of shit to destroy that’ll piss off Jacob. Nick and Kim contact him over the radio every day, giving him updates on the situation in Holland Valley. Usually they end up talking about whatever comes to mind, telling him to visit when he gets chance, that he’s always welcome.

It’s harder to put on a smile around Jess. She- fuck, she saw him at one of his lowest moments. She brought Boomer and Peaches to him, somehow knowing they’d help in a way no human could. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if she tried getting him to talk about what happened, can barely stand to call her up for her help, only doing so because he’s still fucked up and knows he needs the backup.

But Jess doesn’t push. Jess is quiet, nothing different about her usual comments and scorn for when he goes in guns blazing. At most pressing a shoulder to his in one of the moments he can’t stop his hands from shaking, can’t grip anything for shit and has to take a moment to get his breath back to something stable.

Those are the worst. He can deal with anger, channel it into something useful, but when his body escapes his control like that…He’s always fucking hated it. Had years to grow used to it, adjust around those moments. Still doesn’t make them easier to deal with.

What’s harder to adapt to is the fact that he knows what Jacob was trying to do, knows his goal for all the shit he put Rook through, but he doesn’t know if it _worked._ That song - _Only You,_ ingrained in his head after so many repetitions in those endless rooms - is supposed to act as a trigger to the mental space he fell into during his stay at the Grand View. One where he didn’t care about who he was killing, or why. He just knew he had to.

Only four days. He keeps telling himself that, but he can’t be sure whether it was enough. Eli supposedly did some kind of re-conditioning shit when he got Rook out, but like hell Rook is gonna trust that, not when all he remembers is a switch from the red rooms to the grey one, from disorienting, methodical killing to panic crawling under his skin, choking him.

Fuck, he isn’t even back in shape yet. He isn’t ready to throw himself at the Grand View Hotel until he knows he can actually take on the people that’ll be guarding the place. So yeah, he’s doing smaller jobs and building himself up again, and Eli can be fucking grateful that Rook hasn’t just fucked off to the Henbane completely. Sure, there’s the Bliss and the fun times that come with that, but at least he’s relatively sure Faith won’t drug him again. Jacob, on the other hand? Made it pretty damn clear he doesn’t care for Joseph’s orders.

Somehow, this all leads to Rook getting a bear.

Okay, rewind. Jess suggested going after the F.A.N.G. Center, for both it’s strategic location and current use as a Judge training centre. Best to take out as many of the latter as possible, otherwise the cult will just keep churning more out and they’re a real bitch to deal with when he’s trying to be stealthy. Always manage to sniff him out, so yeah, he’s mostly given up on going quiet recently. More satisfying to fuck shit up in really obvious ways, as a bonus.

So they clear the place out, and then Rook’s being asked to go find the main attraction; a bear named Cheeseburger. And he figures, sure, why not. He can do that. Go get a salmon, alright. Kill some cultists, cool. Feed the scary bear which looks like he wants to rip into Rook _oh boy_ ain’t he big when he stands up on his hind legs and those are some sharp teeth tearing into that poor fish and-

And Rook is petting a bear. And the bear is leaning into his hand, almost knocking him over as he makes a rumbling, content noise. It’s-

No, no, he sees where this is going. He _knows._ It won’t happen, he won’t let it, he already has two! Rook is not responsible enough, why does no one get that?!

“He likes you,” Jess observes with an amused smirk.

Rook glares back at her, only for Cheeseburger to shove against Rook’s shoulder to get his attention. And Rook is a big guy, so it says a lot that Cheeseburger almost knocks him down. He grabs fistfuls of thick fur to keep himself from tripping down the hill, and hears Jess’s muffled snicker even if he can’t see her.

“Ha ha, laugh it up,” he says dryly, using Cheeseburger’s bulk to lever himself up and regain his balance. The bear is surprisingly placid, seemingly content to stand there. At least until Rook is upright again, and then he’s snuffling at Rook’s hands and sides like he hopes Rook is hiding another fish.

“I only got the one, okay?” He gives Cheeseburger’s head a hesitant pat, suppressing the smile that wants to break free when Cheeseburger’s eyes close in contentment. Stupid soft spot for animals. He’s never managed to get rid of that, always leaves him feeling guilty after killing Judges. “I’m sure the guys at the Center will have food for you.”

Which, they do. But they also get pretty insistent on Rook taking Cheeseburger with him. Rook tries to explain that he really isn’t equipped to be looking after a half-domesticated grizzly bear, and that Cheeseburger will be in almost constant danger if he goes with him. Like, regularly shot at levels of danger.

“He’s in danger anyway,” Fowler says, mournfully setting out a huge metal bowl full of fish for Cheeseburger to chomp on. “I can’t see Jacob Seed givin’ up on gettin’ himself a Judge bear, and Cheeseburger don’t deserve that. If he’s with you, least I know he’ll stand a chance.”

And. Okay, that’s both a good point and a terrible one. Good, because out of everyone in Hope County, Rook stands the best chance against Jacob and his people. If Cheeseburger did end up stolen, you can bet it’d be Rook who gets sent after him anyway. On top of that, Rook moves around the county so much that it’s damn hard for anyone to track him, and by proxy anyone he’s with.

Terrible, because it isn’t arrogance to say that Rook has the Seeds attention. By this point he’s used to encountering them one way or another, expects it even. Sure, he’s being more cautious with Jacob’s hunters so he doesn’t get drugged again. But with the number of people after him, he can’t guarantee how long he’ll get before something slips past his guard.

“How am I supposed to feed him?” A weak excuse, especially with Boomer and Peaches sat nearby. Jess gives him a look that makes it clear she’s enjoying watching him struggle, and he shoots back a scowl.

Fowler is quick to assure him that Cheeseburger can sort out his own meals, so long as Rook keeps an eye out for any junk food the bear might try getting into.

And that’s that, apparently, because now Rook has a grizzly bear bounding alongside his truck whilst Peaches and Boomer sit in the bed of it.

“Y’know dude,” Sharky says, swinging one arm around Rook’s headrest and leaning into the front of the truck. Jess narrows her eyes at him in annoyance when he breaks into her personal space, and he obligingly shifts away from her. Smart move.

“I think you might have a problem. Not that I’m complaining - it’s cool as shit to have a grizzly running point.” He casts a speculative look out at Cheeseburger. “Hey, think he’s big enough to ride into battle? You’re a big dude, but I’m pretty sure a bear could handle it. ‘Cause that’d be real awesome, and a perfect way to get peggies crapping their pants.” A wide grin spreads across his face as he imagines the sight. “But anyway, you trying to start a zoo or what?”

Rook remembers when he showed up at the jail with Peaches, and how Tracey accused him of adding to his circus act. And there he thought that’d be the extent of it, but nope. It gets worse.

Or better?

Because, okay. A bear isn’t subtle. But Cheeseburger is also really, weirdly good at following orders. Like, Rook can tell him to stay back or attack or whatever, and he listens. Knows not to go after non-cultists - or maybe he’s paying attention to who’s shooting at them. And okay, it’s funny to see them panic when a bear runs at them, and Cheeseburger is great at taking down the assholes in heavy armour.

The looks Resistance members keep shooting him are hilarious, too. When he stops by the outposts he’s taken over for them, he gets plenty of comments about his little entourage - mostly complimentary, but there’s a good few bemused stares or jumps of fright when Peaches decides to shriek out of nowhere, or Cheeseburger yawns wide and shows off those teeth of his. Rook’s just glad that someone’s apparently put out word not to shoot at any of them, because then he’d have to kill whoever did and that would make things real awkward.

So maybe Rook is warming up to the idea, and stops asking everyone he comes across if they’d be willing to take in a bear with a weakness for junk food. Maybe he can see that having Cheeseburger around would be a- tactical advantage. That’s all.

“Okay, fine,” Rook mutters from where he’s sat against Cheeseburger’s warm side, Peaches curled over his calves and Boomer flopped over his lap. It’s the middle of the night and he’s practically roasting, far more comfortable than he has any right to be. “I’m keeping you, too.”

He’ll just…buy a house out somewhere remote. In the woods, with plenty of space for his companions to run free. He’ll need to visit the place more often than he usually would, not take on any long-term jobs, but he’ll figure something out. He always does.


	18. Chapter 18

Grand View Hotel.

He can’t put it off forever. Doesn’t push for more than a few days, in the end. Not enough to fully recover, but he’s got a better handle on things now, knows his muscles haven’t deteriorated much and he’s skilled enough to make up for any discrepancies. His weight is still less than it was before the helicopter crash, before the church, but it’s been like that since a couple weeks in. He’s as good as he’s gonna get.

So when Eli brings up his missing man again, eyeing Rook like he knows just what he’s pushing for but too pragmatic not to do it anyway, Rook sets out to handle it. Good men in bad situations, huh? Funny how Rook’s still the one who ends up in the firing line.

Grace isn’t happy with it when he calls her in. There’s a jerkiness to her usually smooth, practised movements as she checks her equipment, the firelight glinting off her scope. “I don’t like the idea of you going anywhere near that place again. Ever considered letting someone else handle it?”

“Believe me, already told him that,” Jess pipes up from where she’s skinning a rabbit. “Never met a man so fuckin’ stubborn.”

“It isn’t stubbornness,” Rook protests. He asked these two along because they’re the only ones any good at going in quiet. Last thing he wants is for Jacob’s men to catch on and kill their hostages. The guy Eli sent him after - Briggs, one of the numerous militia members being held there - is better off dead than alive and able to tell the cult where the Wolf’s Den is, sure, but Rook is going to make the effort to get him out alive. Can’t think of a better ‘thanks for saving my ass’ than that.

“Look, you both know what we’re gonna be facing," he says. "Only place with better defences is Jacob’s base, and there’ll be dozens of peggies on guard. You really trust anyone else to go in and rescue this guy? Without dying or getting caught themselves?”

They can’t argue against that. The Whitetail Militia aren’t useless, but they don’t have Rook’s reputation for getting shit done no matter the odds. They just don’t have the training for it. And Rook - well, he’s got the advantage of years worth of experience in tipping things in his favour.

The main reason he brought Jess and Grace along, didn’t just storm the place himself with Boomer, Cheeseburger and Peaches, is to keep an eye on him. Rook’s got some earplugs on him to block out the song, but he can’t trust that’ll be enough or that something won’t go wrong which he hasn’t planned for. If he goes crazy, he wants someone there to shut down whatever’s playing the song, and ideally stop him from killing anyone he shouldn’t.

Maybe he’s being paranoid. Maybe four days really wasn’t enough to have a long-term effect. But for as reckless as Rook can be, he isn’t stupid. If he can lessen the chances of him being fucking brainwashed, he’ll do it.

Even if it involves bearing the combined weight of Grace and Jess’s disapproval when he has them stay at the edges of the property, Boomer and Cheeseburger with them, whilst Rook and Peaches make their way closer.

They only agreed to his plan because if anyone spots him he’s got the best chance of fighting his way out, whilst they pick cultists off from a distance. The look of commiseration shared between them was enough to have him sulking as he creeps up behind a guard, waiting until he’s near a convenient bush before grabbing him.

“No one has any faith in me,” he tells Peaches, fingers gripping tight to the struggling man’s jaw before he yanks hard to the left. There’s a wet crunch and the man goes limp, rifle falling from lax fingers. Leaving him in the bush isn’t a perfect solution - red, black and grey kind of stand out to anyone walking close by - but it should do for the next few minutes.

Peaches takes down another man who’s unlucky enough to walk around the corner while Rook’s fiddling with the alarms. The best kitty in the whole world chomps down on his throat before he can yell, the pained gurgles nice and quiet. He pets Peaches head and taps his side, keeping low to the ground as he moves into the hotel.

No memories spring up once he’s inside. Nothing more than an idle observation that it probably used to be a nice hotel, dark wooden floorboards and cream walls giving it a warm, rustic feel, especially with the view of the lake. However, it’s age and lack of maintenance had started to show even before the cult got their hands on it, mould and water stains on walls painted with _SACRIFICE_ and _YOU ARE MEAT._

“The weak are meat; the strong do eat,” Rook mutters with a sardonic smile. Wow Jacob, what a new and enlightening philosophy you’ve got there. Must’ve put a lot of thought into coming up with that one.

He’ll give him points for dedication to an ideal, at least. Seems like every room in the place has been home to one of the ‘trials’ Jacob’s putting these people through, and there’s more than one corpse along the way. A few people are still alive, but completely out of it when he gets close enough to try rousing them. Only three have been here for a short enough time to respond, struggling against the ropes tying them to chair as Rook resolutely ignores the slide show playing behind him, earplugs in the second he saw the tape player.

Which, yeah, not being able to hear makes things tougher. But he’s got Peaches with him, her reactions warning him of anyone getting near. He tells the hostages to keep to their room until it’s all over and done with, gets hesitant nods which he figures are good enough. He still makes it clear that their friends will end up dead if they don’t listen to him, just to give some extra incentive. He doesn’t need unknowns charging in and fucking things up for him. Not when he’s trying to do this quietly.

The hotel is by no means empty of cultists. There are guards on every landing and patrolling the halls, a couple of them bulked up with heavy armour and plenty of the grey-coated Chosen milling around. They’re the ones he’s careful of, ducking into rooms whenever they come near and taking down several as quietly as he can, knives straight through the base of their skulls to sever spinal cords. His knife gets stuck on the third one, caught between vertebrae, and he curses under his breath until a harsh tug gets it free.

It also splatters his face with blood, a metallic tang on his lips that he wipes away impatiently, but like hell is he abandoning his best knife. He only has so much of the equipment Denise sent him, and nothing of the cult’s matches up so far. Maybe once he kills Jacob he’ll take that wicked combat knife of his. That looked quality.

Finding Briggs is a test of his patience. At some point he starts expecting the man to already be dead. Left it too long, oops. Except no, there he is, strapped down in another brainwashing room and stewing in his own filth. Should’ve plugged up his nose, too.

Rook’s feeling pretty good about his stealthiness, Briggs slung over his shoulder and Peaches trotting ahead of him, when a cultist wielding a machine gun shows up out of fucking nowhere.

Okay, so he actually just came in from the balcony. But Rook is still pissed at him for being the only asshole to spot him despite clunking around in heavy armour. Which is maybe why - instead of running away like a sensible person - he drops Briggs and sprints full-tilt at the man.

He sees the gun raising, sees widening eyes behind the visor of his tin-can helmet. Then he’s launching a kick that sends the man staggering back, unprepared to have Rook right up in his face in the next second. And, well, how is Rook supposed to resist the grenade belt slung across the man’s chest?

Metal pins grasped and _yanked,_ Rook shoves the cultist off the balcony and drops flat to the floor.

The explosion sends heat rippling through the air. The sound is muffled by the earplugs, his eyes closed tight as red flashes across the inside of his eyelids. And somehow-

That’s what does it.

It isn’t like getting pulled under into a panic attack, slow and sweeping and thick. No, this is a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from his lungs and sending him hurtling down. Back to that chair, back to that low, crooning song and nails digging into wood and bindings so tight they’re cutting into his skin, rubbed raw and bloody where he struggles. It’s his heartbeat thundering in his ears, too fast and loud, at the verge of giving out more times than he can count.

It’s knowing he either fights, or he dies.

And Rook has always chosen to fight.

He doesn’t lose himself in it. Not like before, in one of these rooms, or the boiling rage after the baptism John forced on him. He’s aware. Aware and relentless as he picks off the cultists one by one, red flickering at the corners of his vision but not closing in, held back by the cold hooks tugging him forward.

There’s no room for anything else, for Jacob’s red or the dull static of panic. There’s just his hands on his gun, lining up neatly with faces he barely registers as his finger squeezes the trigger. This isn’t wrath. Isn’t hate, or fear, or revenge.

This is an execution.

In a moment where he has the space to pause, he switches the radio on at his belt. Feels distant, too small and too large for his body, like his hands are a million miles away yet he’s still completely present and aware of every inch of him. Entirely in control.

“People are fragile.” He has the earpiece clipped to his shirt collar, microphone able to pick up his words. He can’t hear his own voice, not through the earplugs, but he speaks anyway. Careful and slow. “They break so easily. We think ourselves strong, find confidence in the hurt we can inflict, and yet-”

He shoots at a man’s legs so he falls to his knees, dully registers widening eyes and a pained grimace. Grasps the back of the man’s head and slams him into his raised knee, feels the snap of bone reverberate through him.

“-it doesn’t matter in the end. We can all be broken, no matter what we do to avoid it. There’ll always be someone better, someone who can take from us everything we’ve built, everything we thought we’d gained. We’re just human, in the end. And the only certainty of humanity is that we will fail.”

More cultists come for him, bullets flying past his face and skimming along the plating at his shoulder. He sees Grace’s green sight on one, an arrow flying for another, and focuses on those that remain. Gets in close, and watches the light fade from their eyes.

“We will fail, and we will die.” He presses his thumbs against a man’s pulse point, feels the rapid tick against his skin and ignores the desperate scramble, pinning down flailing limbs as panic overwhelms training. “And isn’t that the natural order of things? Death at the hands of a greater predator. To someone with the strength you wish you were capable of. Isn’t that how it should be?”

Peaches brushes against his side in warning, teeth bared in a snarl before she lunges for a woman approaching from his right. Her face is set in a determined scowl, but it’s not enough to mask the trembling of her hands as she yells something at him.

He stands, the cultist under him gone still and empty. “In a world where weakness has survived, has _thrived_ despite its inherent lack of worth, isn’t it only _right_ that those who claim to be strong should be tested?”

She lines her gun up with his head, but Peaches is already too close. Her struggle is brief as Peaches’ claws and teeth rip through thin armour, bloodying her tan fur.

“You call me sinner. Wrath. Heretic.” He looks around. Sees nothing but corpses cooling in the dirt. “You’re wrong. I’m your test. Your judge.” The corners of his mouth quirk up in a mocking smile. “You have been weighed on the scales, and found…wanting.”

* * *

Grace and Jess find him after.

He’s kneeling in the shallows of the lake, scrubbing the blood from his clothes and Peaches’ fur. It’s meditative in a way, despite how Peaches glowers at him and makes half-hearted swipes that wouldn’t do much damage even if they hit.

“What the fuck was that?” Jess snarls as soon as she’s close enough for him to hear. Under all that anger, she’s unsettled. Wary as she watches him closely, fingers lingering near her knife.

Grace isn’t much better, though she at least isn’t reaching for a weapon. Her arms are crossed, mouth pulled into a deep frown.

“That was- well, you can call it psychological warfare, if you wanna be fancy.” Rook’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, caught between his teeth, as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn clump of blood. “Figure I may as well use their own rhetoric against them. Kinda twisted it up like a pretzel, but hey, if you sound certain enough when you speak anything will sound reasonable.” Joseph has more than proved that.

“You gave yourself away,” Grace points out.

“Nah, was already caught.” He shoots a grin over his shoulder. “C’mon, you gotta admit it distracted them.”

“It also rang the dinner bell for any peggies in the area. What was the point in taking out the alarms and radio towers if you were gonna do that?”

“Okay, fair.” He raises his hands in surrender. Peaches takes the opportunity to sprint out of the lake, shaking hard once she’s at the shoreline and splattering Jess with water. The disgruntled scowl is a step up from her earlier anger. “But we handled it, didn’t we? No one got hurt, and the Whitetails can come pick up Briggs and the rest, get them de-brainwashed. Everyone’s happy.”

Jess gives a disgusted scoff and stalks away.

Rook tilts his head, confused. For some reason that makes Grace sigh, shoulders slumping and weariness crossing her face. “You were supposed to be quiet, Rook. In and out, that’s all. We were counting on you being careful, not-” Her jaw tightens, hand coming up to grip her scarf. “I’ll follow your lead, you know that. But I won’t watch you kill yourself.”

“I’m not gonna-”

“You walked right up to them!” she snaps. It’s the first time he’s seen her properly lose her temper. They’ve fought beside each other often enough now that he feels like he’s got a good handle on her personality, and this is- he’s never seen her this way.

“I saw you get real close for no good reason, chatting on the radio and challenging every peggie able to pick up a signal. You- It wasn’t necessary, what you did. It was as far from smart as you can get, and all because you wanted to taunt Jacob fucking Seed.”

A cold weight settles in Rook’s stomach, and he moves towards the shore in slow, even steps. “What’s so wrong with that? The man could use a little taunting.”

Frustration mars her usual composure. “Do y’think this is some sort of game? This is about _saving_ people, good people. People that need your help. They don’t need someone who’s gonna throw his life away.”

“Then that’s too fucking bad, ‘cause guess what?” Rook spreads his arms wide, grins sharp and empty. “I’m what you’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

Grace shakes her head slowly, something pained in her eyes. “You’re going to destroy yourself one of these days. You either can’t see that, or you don’t care, and I don’t know which is worse.”

Rook bites back the indignation bubbling up in his chest. “What does it matter, huh? So long as I’m fighting the Seeds, killing people the Resistance wants dead, what does it matter how I do it? The outcome will be the same - you’ll get your county back in the end, and I’ll be the one making sure it happens.”

That’s what he is to them. A tool at their disposal, one more dangerous than they know what to do with but too handy to get rid of. And he’ll do it, he’ll head the fight and play this role to the end. But they don’t get to criticise his methods. They haven’t earned that right, not even close.

“And if you kill yourself doing it?”

“Then make sure my body gets cremated. Don’t bury me in a fucking coffin, alright?” He gives a harsh laugh, feels it drag against his throat. “Hate those things.”

For a long moment, Grace is silent. Then she steps back.

“I’m going back to the valley,” she says firmly. “If you need my help, let me know. Otherwise-” She closes her eyes. “Think about what I said. About why you’re doing this. You deserve better than dying at the hands of the Seeds.”

His voice gets caught in his throat as he watches her go, trapping a question behind his lips.

_What do I deserve?_

Because the thing is, dying at the Seeds’ hands wouldn’t be so bad. They’ve earned his attention over and over again, intense and focused and destructive in spreading their madness through Hope County. They’ve shaken things up in a way he hasn’t experienced in a long time, pushed him further than anyone else has ever been capable of since he was a teenager. He can be angry at them, can hate Faith’s manipulations in the Bliss and Jacob’s blunt-force attempts at control and Joseph’s- _everything,_ but that doesn’t make him any less caught up in their chaos. Doesn’t make it possible for him to walk away.

He can’t see what Grace does. Can’t see the issue with letting loose and having some fun with this. He’ll get the job done in the end, and isn’t that all that matters? The Resistance are his, in a fragile sense, so he’ll make sure they win.

The radio crackles when he’s putting his armour back on, earpiece back in and picking up on transmissions. Right, he hadn’t turned the radio off, just closed it down on his end.

His hand lingers over the radio, considering switching it off. After a moment, he leaves is be.

_“Do you think you’re a hero, Deputy?”_

Jacob. Who else would it be?

The sound of his voice makes Rook’s hands curl into fists, before he deliberately relaxes them. He starts walking, heading towards the bodies littered around and inside the hotel. Let’s see if any have some decent equipment - he knows he lost a knife or two in the scuffle. If not, he’ll at least fill up on ammunition.

_“There’s nothing heroic about your actions. Maybe you understand that. Perhaps, you think you’re a predator, a hunter of hunters. When really you’re just an animal caught in a trap.”_

Rook looks around, but there’s no one in the vicinity. Peaches, Boomer and Cheeseburger aren’t showing any signs of hostility or wariness, so it’s safe to assume Jacob’s Chosen aren’t closing in on him. He moves into the hotel anyway, stepping over shattered wood and bloods-slicked floorboards.

_“Do you think yourself strong, Deputy?”_ Jacob asks, echoing back Rook’s earlier words in a condescending tone. _“Do you believe it gives you the right to act as our judgement because you are_ strong _, and can kill without consequence?”_

The former hostages mill around the reception area, jerky and wild-eyed at his entrance until they see who it is. Some relax, whilst others curl in on themselves, mouths moving to silent words he can’t make out. Can guess, but doesn’t want to. Rook passes by them, and the scent of burnt flesh almost covers up the rusty smell of blood and the tang of gunpowder.

_“I’d like to show you how wrong you are. Don’t worry. There’s nothing you need to do. My men will come for you, and it’ll be your turn to be tested.”_ There’s a soft sound, almost like a chuckle. _“People are fragile, isn’t that right? I wonder how much it’ll take for you to break.”_

Rook pauses on the landing. Loosens tense muscles in a slow roll of his shoulders, and drags his hand away from his gun. Breathes in, and out.

Hears the soft beep as he switches the microphone on.

“I’ll be waiting, Jacob. Don’t take too long.”


	19. Chapter 19

Like hell is Rook going to wait around.

Eli is already on his way to fetch his people, so Rook gets out of there. He’s even nice enough to take out a couple of patrols on his way so Jacob’s men won’t go looking for him at the hotel. He gives the cultists enough time to call out over their radios and makes sure to use knives, because he’s pretty sure he’s the main person who consistently does that in the county. Like, at least ninety per cent of crushed windpipes, broken necks and punctured arteries are down to him.

What can he say? He likes working with his hands.

The last patrol has a pickup truck in decent condition, only a few bullet holes marring off-white paint, and he takes it over to Hurk’s place. Doesn’t take much convincing to have Hurk agreeing to look after Rook’s- pets? Yeah, sure, he supposes they kinda are his pets now - even if none of the three are particularly happy about him abandoning them again.

Boomer whines and shoves his nose under Rook’s chin, whilst Peaches prowls nearby with a distinctly annoyed air, tail flicking behind her. Cheeseburger just looks at him with big brown eyes, seven hundred pounds of sulking grizzly bear.

Rook spares a moment of incredulity over the fact that this is somehow his life. And also to be mildly scared of how fucking smart these animals are.

“S’just a couple days,” he assures them, fingers combing through Boomer’s fur and earning a slow wag of his tail that isn’t nearly as enthusiastic as normal. “I’ll be back soon, promise.”

“Y’know they can’t actually understand you, right?”

Hurk raises his hands in surrender when Rook looks his way. “Shit man, no judgement, but you’re totally just talkin’ at animals right now, so I’ve gotta say somethin’. It’s kinda weird, I’ll be honest.”

Peaches comes to a halt in front of Hurk, ears flattened to her head as she growls quietly. Somehow, it’s way scarier than her usual screeches. Definitely has Hurk backing off, eyes widening. “Um. No offence, ma’am?” He darts a nervous glance in Rook’s direction. “Lemme just take all that back, ‘kay? Don’t let her eat me, what’ll you do without your main man there to shoot shit outta the sky?”

“Call in Sharky, maybe?” Rook stands up with one last pat to Boomer’s head. “Wouldn’t take long to give him a crash course on rocket launchers.”

“You take that back.” Hurk forgets about Peaches in favour of mortal offence. It eases away the slight tension he’s had the entire time Rook’s been here. Like he isn’t sure how to treat Rook when there’s always been a casual friendliness before. People been talking, huh? Not surprising. “There’s- There’s an artistry to it, alright? You gotta respect the _art,_ man.”

“I respect it, believe me.”

Because hell, if it isn’t convenient having Hurk around to shoot down the helicopters and planes that get sent after him. If he’s got a sniper rifle on him he can take out helicopter pilots, but planes are tricker. Have to wait until they get low, use armour piercing rounds, and then it’s a real small window of time to line up the shot and take it.

On one memorable occasion he managed to lob a stick of dynamite at exactly the right moment for it to go straight into a propellor. Not something he can do on the regular, but definitely had him high fiving Sharky and thinking _I love my life._

“Any reason you’re leavin’ them with me for so long? Not that I mind helpin’ you out and all, always up for that, but I ain’t really got the best track record with takin’ care of animals.”

Well, Rook would’ve left them with Jess if she’d ever answer the radio. Still pissed at him. Not that he’ll tell Hurk he isn’t his first choice for this - talk about a dick move.

Instead he claps a hand on Hurk’s shoulder and puts on a serious face. “They’re mostly self-sufficient, but I need someone I trust to keep an eye on them. I know you’ll do a great job.” It’s even pretty genuine. He wouldn’t peg Hurk as the most responsible guy, but he can’t see him half-assing this either.

“Shit, amigo.” Hurk sniffs, and then he’s hugging Rook before he can do much more than brace for it. “You’re real nice, y’know that? Now some guys they think you’re kinda scary with the, the wanton murder and all, and you sorta smell like blood all the time. Which yeah, okay, s’kinda odd I won’t lie, ‘specially when there ain’t actually any blood on you, or you’ve got that weirdass smile on like you wanna rip Jacob Seed’s throat out with your teeth or somethin’. But you’re a nice guy under it all, I know it.”

Rook’s mouth twitches, not sure whether to pull into a smile or a grimace. It settles somewhere in between as he pats Hurk’s back. “Thanks. I think.”

Pets taken care of, there isn’t much stopping him from making a beeline for the St. Francis Veterans Center. Fitting place for Jacob’s base of operations, if kind of sad in a weird, discomforting way that Rook’s happy to ignore. He focuses on the irony of prepping for war in a veteran hospital instead.

As much as he wants to charge right in there, he does have a modicum of sense rattling around in his head. It’s been a while since he’s properly cased somewhere. With the outposts he gets a general idea of the location, maybe picks out how many targets there are and any hostages if he’s feeling cautious, but he hasn’t given anywhere the full paranoid bastard treatment yet.

Mostly because it hasn’t been necessary. Yeah, he’ll make the effort to take out alarms first - unless he’s in the mood for drawing more cultists in - and he’s always worked best with flying by the seat of his pants. Throw him in a situation, and no matter how dangerous it is he’ll come out on top.

So he doesn’t really need to take the time to learn patrol routes, check out the weaponry on hand and any decent vantage points. He can afford to be sloppy when no one’s good enough to put him down, and he isn’t being precise here. This isn’t a hit with a specific target in mind. This is killing anyone in his path, clearing them out one by one until Joseph’s little kingdom crumbles under his feet. He isn’t hiding who he is anymore, doesn’t need to mind the skill he’s showing or curb the worst of his tendencies. He can do whatever the hell he wants.

And fuck, does it feel good to go all out. Getting back to real life is going to be a hard adjustment. Makes him want to drag this out longer. Unfortunately, Jacob’s pissed him off with his _‘my men are coming for you, cower in fear before my super scary trials, rawr I am alpha’_ bullshit.

He wants Rook to be one of his soldiers so badly? Time to show him what he’ll be getting.

* * *

Getting to the Veterans Center takes a while only because Rook is being careful not to get caught. Don’t want to give the gig away too soon. If Jacob knows he’s coming that’ll take half the fun out of it.

So he finds himself a cultist who’s about Rook’s size, and steals that godawful sweatshirt they love wearing. Burns the body so no one wonders why it’s missing clothes. He doesn’t have a scruffy beard or greasy hair to really pull off the cultist look, but like his first time at John’s ranch, this is more of an extra precaution. If someone gets close enough to see his face then they’re close enough to kill. Problem taken care of.

He sticks to the woods on his approach, pausing at each distant sound of gunfire, or helicopter rotors overhead. Keeps an eye out for any Judges, extra cautious now he doesn’t have Boomer or Peaches to warn him. Being alone is unsettling in a way. He’s gotten used to having someone with him, whether human or otherwise, watching his back and disrupting the silence. He’ll have to break himself of those habits when he leaves.

Like in John’s region, the density of patrols increases the closer Rook gets to the Veterans Center. They’re less jumpy than John’s people, but more aware of their surroundings. Better trained. Says a lot about Joseph’s ability to draw people in that there’s still so many cultists despite the sheer number Rook’s killed. How many believe in him, enough to throw their lives away in a fight they’ll never win.

They don’t know that, though. They probably believe that with God on their side, it’s impossible for them to fail. Having that kind of certainty must be nice.

Rook has his earplugs in the second the Veterans Center comes into view. It’s a big place, three stories of white stone within towering gates overgrown with ivy. Through binoculars he can make out two corpses strung up on the walls either side of the front gate, hanging beneath flags with the Project’s cross on it, white against red. Guess they didn’t pass Jacob’s trials.

The defences are decent. He counts five mounted machine guns behind sandbags, two mortars as well tucked just behind the gates to either side. Another few mounted guns up on the roof with people monitoring the skies, four of them carrying sniper rifles and one with a rocket launcher. Two helicopter pads, one occupied, and three trucks - each with more mounted guns.

Then there are the people themselves. Mostly Chosen, going by the red and grey, either patrolling or guarding the prisoners locked up in cages on either side of the main building. There are wolves in some of the cages, too. Ones that haven’t been trained yet? He focuses on the prisoners, sees gaunt faces and desperation, only a few with the strength to yell at the guards or slam uselessly against the bars. Eli’s missing Militia mostly, but a few civilians too.

The place has several radio towers, each with speakers no doubt blaring one of Jacob’s broadcasts. If it was _Only You,_ he’d expect to see more of a reaction from the people in cages, or even the guards. First step is undirected violence, so the next has got to be harnessing that, aiming it where Jacob wants it to go. The guards might be able to control themselves with time and exposure, but there’d be some response. A restlessness or restrained aggression. Unless they’re so well trained that it doesn’t apply without a relevant target.

He’ll keep the earplugs in anyway. He has a goal for this, and he’d like to stick to it. So he watches with patience he hasn’t had much use for recently. Counts each person he sees, watches some come and go, and is only a little disappointed not to see Jacob.

Once he’s satisfied that he has a good understanding of what he’ll be going up against, he leaves. Gets out as quiet as he got in, until he’s far enough away to hop in an abandoned car - blood on the seat and _SINNER_ sprayed on the bonnet - and make his way to Holland Valley.

He keeps the radio and phone turned off. This is something he can’t afford to be distracted from - doesn’t _want_ to be. Purpose settles in his bones, a warm weight that presses in deeper whenever he considers slowing down. He’s made the decision to do this, knowing how it’ll end. It clears his head like nothing else can.

The bunker’s he’s got at the north of John’s territory hasn’t been disturbed since he was last here. He sleeps first, eats until he can’t take any more and uses the opportunity to clean up. The shower runs cold, but it’s the last he’ll get for a while so he makes the most of it.

Then he starts getting ready.

His current equipment is looking a little battered, but there’s no use in putting on a new batch when he’ll be losing this lot soon. Rook straps on two pistols, and smiles when he finds a knife as long as his forearm, the steel blade a matt black. Other, smaller ones join it, slipping into holsters alongside as much ammunition as he can carry on his body.

He hesitates over the guns, eyeing the rocket launcher and sniper rifle. No, can’t make it too easy. He settles for an automatic rifle like he’s been using lately, but gives in to the temptation to bring along a shotgun. There’s a lot of people with heavy armour in the Veterans Center - a gun like this will come in handy.

Once he’s ready he finds himself pausing, hand drifting down to his radio. The urge to call the Ryes takes him off guard. He wants to- he doesn’t know. Warn them, maybe. Let them know he’s going to go silent for a while, and he’ll be fine. He has the radio half-raised to his mouth before he stops himself.

If he calls them, either they’ll send people after him or Jacob will find out, know he’s coming. He wants this to be a surprise. Won’t be as fun if they’re expecting him.

He leaves his gloves and the phone inside the bunker - can’t expect John to return them again, and a quick text of a smiley emoji to Denise should be enough to keep her from panicking over his silence - and heads out in search of a semi-truck and speaker system.

* * *

While Rook can’t hear the music blaring out of the speakers, he can feel it thrumming through his body as the truck hurtles towards the Veterans Center.

A grin carves itself across his face. Heat is sparking through his veins, driving away every other thought that isn’t about the upcoming fight. He’s close now, waited until he was less than a mile away to start up the music. It’s one of the songs from the radio stations outside the county, a guitar riff all he’d caught before he put the earplugs in, and he hopes the cultists fucking hate it.

His fingers clench tight around the wheel and the truck smashes through a roadblock. It scatters the men on it, before they start shooting - nothing more than a flicker in the corner of his eye before they’re gone, the forest on either side a blur. Their fault for armouring up the truck in a sad replica of the Widowmaker. Good enough for his purposes right now, though.

The Veterans Center comes up fast, radio towers flashing red with their alarms. He can almost hear it through the earplugs, but these things are industrial grade for a reason, and taped on for a bit of extra care. Going to be a bitch to remove, but the alternative- well. There’s reckless, then there’s _reckless._

Bullets ping off the truck, crack the windshield, and he doesn’t stop. Makes himself lift his boot off the gas so he isn’t going full speed, but still fast enough that there’s no going back now.

Rook’s laughing when the truck ploughs right through the gates.

He jerks forward on impact, narrowly avoiding breaking his nose on the wheel as the seatbelt presses hard against his chest plate, and feels the collision reverberate through his body as the truck skids to a halt. Then he’s throwing himself out the door and sliding into cover behind an empty fountain, blowing the head off a cultist too slow to react.

He picks off three more before they stop reeling, get their guns up and start responding to the attack. Some dart for cover behind sandbags and low walls, others march towards him with misplaced confidence. The latter are the first to go, shotgun switched out for the rifle. He feels more than hears each shot, the snap of recoil against his hands and shoulder. Doesn’t seems quite real until he’s watching men fall and bleed.

The red makes something hungry and vicious surge in his chest. Nothing like the cold at the hotel, nothing so clinical. This is-

This is so much fucking better.

He abandons his cover, tosses a few smoke grenades to make things difficult for the snipers. Can feel the music playing in how the ground shakes with it. Then he’s back to his shotgun and shoving the barrel against the armour’s weak point at the throat, thinner there to allow for movement. A shame that the woman sure won’t be moving much without a neck.

A bullet grazes his cheek and he ducks, half-registers the sting of it before he’s moving. Keep moving, don’t stop. That’s how you get through situations where you’re massively outgunned. By all rights, this should kill him. At least fifty people, all decently trained, and at the end of the day he’s just one man.

And fuck, if it doesn’t feel good.

The Chosen get themselves in gear enough to start coordinating things. Move in teams, picking up for each other and providing cover fire. Force him to slow down, or risk getting shot. A good strategy for any opponent who values their life.

Have they not been paying attention?

More grenades, this time frags that explode and send people running. Best way to clear an area - leaving them open to Rook charging in, knife in hand and heat bubbling up in his chest as his heartbeat thunders in his ears. The sharp edge cuts through flesh so easy, and a harsh yank widens the gash, leaves cultists grasping fruitlessly at torn throats and dropping when their tendons are cut. Stabs with unerring accuracy at arteries - neck, armpit, back of the knee, groin - and shooting at anyone too far away for him to get close to.

He’s quick about it - kind, really - and doesn’t drag it out like he wants to.

But the ones who manage to get a hit in, who graze his sides with bullets or their own blades - those, he leaves alive. A reward for pushing him, for rising to the challenge he set and making this a little less _easy._ He wants the pain of non-fatal injuries, the building discomfort in overworked muscles and the frantic awareness of everything happening around him. He wants this to _hurt._

He’s breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead and his leg twinging when he leans his weight on it. A moment of respite where he’s pressed against the side of the building, reloading the pistol he changed to once he ran out of shotgun shells. Rifle got lost at some point, probably when he beat in a man’s face with it. Shame. He liked that one.

A glance around the corner shows a woman darting for one of the mounted machine guns. Good thing Rook is prepared for those.

Having remote explosives strapped to his chest isn’t the best idea when going into a gunfight, but where else was he supposed to put them? Either way, it comes in useful now. He tosses it towards the turret - in another life he could’ve totally been a baseball player - and ducks down because he, uh, might’ve overloaded the thing past the point of what could be considered reasonable.

The force of the explosion sends him stumbling forward, and when he looks over his shoulder the turret is gone. So is a section of the wall behind it, dust and smoke smothering the area. Rook pats the other explosive he has on him, and carefully places it against the building beside him.

Then he gets the fuck out of there before he sets it off.

He can feel the wave of heat at his back, ground shaking under his feet. It unbalances the cultist he nearly runs into, giving Rook chance to drive a knee into his gut. The man curls over it but gets his shotgun up, tries aiming it at Rook. A mistake when Rook is so close, and it’s easy to knock the gun aside, to get his pistol under the man’s chin and squeeze the trigger.

How many is that now? He’s lost count. Always does that, even when he’s trying like he is now. At least twenty, maybe edging towards thirty or over, minus the ones he left alive. Then add a bit more depending on how many the explosives take out.

And he’s getting tired. Fuck, he’s out of shape. This should be a walk in the park, and instead he’s panting like a dog. Doesn’t reduce the smile on his face any, though. Killing Jacob’s men, fucking up his base - yeah, that’s satisfying.

So when someone gets a lucky shot in, an arrow in his leg and Bliss-green clouding the edges of his vision, he isn’t too upset. This was always how it was going to go.

And he’s pretty cheery about shooting the fucker who got him, before the world slides away.

* * *

He wakes to sore muscles and the sting of various wounds, blood tacky on his face and neck. It takes a moment to draw himself together, fingers twitching as he does a mental rundown. Nothing broken, and no blood loss. Strained muscle in his calf, a few grazes, and an ache in his ribs that feels like bruising more than a break. Superficial, really.

The weight of his armour and protective layer is gone, leaving him in just a shirt, pants and boots. No weapons on him, either, and the earplugs are gone. His ears and the very edges of his cheeks sting from the duct tape being torn off.

Opening his eyes, Rook tilts his head back and to the side. And there he is. Jacob Seed, watching him through the iron bars of his cage with assessing eyes, lips pressed in a hard line.

Rook makes a show of stretching his arms out - ignores the twinge of exhaustion - and puts them behind his head, fingers interlaced to cradle his skull. “I’ve gotta say.” He clears his throat to remove the rough edge to his voice. “Not the worst place I’ve woken up in.”

How long has he been unconscious this time? It’s dark now, stars bright in the night sky between wisps of clouds, so a good few hours. Hopefully it isn’t the next day. That’d mess with his body clock like nothing else.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Jacob’s slow, almost casual question brings Rook’s gaze back to him. He’s as tense as a bowstring, hands clenched tight at his sides, but it doesn’t show in his face. That, he’s keeping calm. Steady.

There isn’t another prisoner in Rook’s cage, nor in the ones either side of him. Just a wolf growling low in its throat to his right. Beyond that, there are guards lingering close by, all eyes on Rook. He feels like quite the celebrity.

Rook’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Yeah. S’pose I did.”

Jacob nods, expecting an answer like that. Then he steps closer to the cage, drawing a music box out of his pocket. “We’ll see how long your bravado lasts.” He starts to wind up the box, and Rook takes a deep breath. He can make a good guess at what’s coming.

He isn’t scared though, and he isn’t going to pretend for Jacob’s benefit. This is- a choice that was almost an inevitability. Facing Jacob again and going into one of his trials. Those hunters are good enough to get him eventually, especially when Rook was never going to be able to ignore Jacob. Only this time, Rook put himself here. He tore away a piece of control and made it his. Took away the leverage of fear, and faced this head on.

(Forced Jacob to look past his idea of Rook, of what he wants Rook to be, and catch a glimpse of who he really is. Forced him to _see.)_

“When I’m done with you, you’ll understand the mistake you’ve made.”

Specs of light drift off the box, even before the music starts to play. Bliss. He’s using Bliss this time.

It startles a laugh out of Rook, and he closes his eyes as red starts to creep into the corners of his mind. “We’ll see.”

When the song starts, he hums along until he can’t anymore. Until there’s nothing left but red and-

_Train. Hunt. Kill._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we have the Jacob chapters! Took a while but he's got his screentime now.


	20. Chapter 20

They don’t keep the music on constantly like they did last time.

No, Rook gets the dubious pleasure of breaks between each session. Shockingly, there isn’t much he can do in a cage to keep entertained. By day two he figures they aren’t going to feed him, and he hasn’t been given water yet either. Smart thing to do would be to conserve his energy, keep a watchful eye for any openings he can use to escape.

But Rook is here by choice, and he wants them to know that. So he comes up with a little exercise routine. Nothing super strenuous, but something to occupy his time. His muscles are going to get eaten away no matter what he does, and if he pushes himself to the brink of dying sooner - that just means they’ll have to feed him. Flawless logic.

Keeps him from getting bored, anyway.

And boredom absolutely is the worst part of this. Oh, getting mindfucked is no walk in the park, but at least that’s engaging. Hours of nothing to do but let his mind drift…Now that’ll drive him crazier faster than anything Jacob can do. So he finds things to occupy himself. Spends a while observing the wolf in the cage beside him, watching it pace back and forth and growl at anyone nearby. May or may not have an afternoon where he pulls a sock off and tries teaching the wolf to play fetch, to utter failure.

He tries talking to the guards too, and predictably they refuse to engage. He gets a few wary looks, some angry ones, others just look at him with expressions that seem almost lost. But for the most part, they have enough discipline to ignore him when he’s leaning against the bars and chatting shit about their fashion sense.

“It’s the sweaters, really,” he tells a woman with dark brown hair, her fingers tight on the rifle she carries. He’d put her at late thirties, ex-soldier, got a nasty burn on her left arm. She’s doing a good job of not reacting, gaze moving in scanning sweeps that don’t pause on him for even a moment.

“I’m gonna be honest with you; they look kind of cheap.” His voice is a dry rasp at this point, but as long as he’s capable of talking he’s not stopping. Will it make things uncomfortable for him faster? Sure. Will it kill him? No, because the Seeds want him in their club and it’d be a lot of wasted effort if Rook died here.

“I know you got them commissioned special - don’t think Walmart sells clothing with that cross of yours on it - so why not spring for something a little nicer? You could’ve had cashmere, don’t try telling me John can’t spring for that. I’ve been to his ranch - hell, one look at the guy makes it clear money ain’t an object.” He tilts his head, eyeing the frayed edges of the woman’s rolled-up sleeves. “Or at least cotton, that’d be easier to clean blood out of.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re even capable of keeping your mouth shut.”

Rook presses his cheek against the bars holding most of his weight, and grins when Jacob comes striding over. His lips sting as they crack from the movement, but he doesn’t let it fade. “If it isn’t my favourite mountain man. Was starting to think you’d never visit.”

There’s a knife in Jacob’s hands, one he’s turning over idly. Once he’s closer Rook realises it’s _his_ knife. Been cleaned since he used it, no blood dried on the blade. Better condition than he’s in - isn’t easy to get clean when you’ve got no water, so the best he could do was wipe blood off on his shirt. At least the cultists decided to disinfect and bandage up his wounds at some point when he was unconscious. An infection would be a bitch to deal with.

He notices the guard retreating at a nod from Jacob, leaving them more or less alone. Even the wolf’s quietened down, curled up in the opposite corner of its cage.

Jacob traces the flat of the blade with his finger, standing just out of reach on the other side of the bars. “Being a soldier must have been difficult. Obeying orders, knowing when to shut up and do your job. I imagine that’s why you got kicked out. Didn’t have the discipline for it.”

Rook can’t help but laugh. It isn’t a nice one, hoarse and shifting into dry coughs that leave him breathless. Doesn’t stop the bemused grin from curling up the corners of his mouth, fingers tapping against the bars. “Nah, I wasn’t ah, _relieved of service_ or dishonourably discharged, or anything like that. You were, right? PTSD is a fucking bitch,” he commiserates, eyes closing briefly.

Three days without food or water. He can talk, but it’s harder to pull his words together, get them in the right order. He’s fucking tired, too. The discomfort and pain, though - that he knows how to ignore. Oh, he’ll feel it all, but he’s great at letting it fade into background noise, acknowledging it and deciding it isn’t important. He’s the king of fucked up coping mechanisms for a reason.

“Why leave, then?” There’s a terseness to Jacob’s tone that wasn’t there before. Maybe he doesn’t like having his past printed in Joseph’s book and out there for anyone to see. Or maybe he just doesn’t like Rook bringing it up. “You’re a killer. Why desert a role you fit so well?”

Rook looks at him, and there’s an intensity to Jacob’s gaze that wasn’t there back at the hotel. A restlessness Rook can’t find the source of. Makes him curious in a dull, quiet way. Makes him consider the pieces of his past and what’s worth keeping a hold of.

Annoyance creases Jacob’s brow at Rook’s silence. With clear deliberation, he pulls a canteen out of his jacket and shakes it, lets Rook hear the slosh of water. Rook’s throat aches when he swallows. Oh? Going for persuasion rather than torture? That’s a surprise.

“It gets tiring, doesn’t it?” He tears his gaze from the canteen to Jacob’s face. Picks and chooses where he’ll be honest, what he’ll reveal. “Being told you’re doing the right thing, when you know it’s a lie. People saying you’re a hero, your actions are _righteous_ and _good_ and all you can do is count the bodies, wonder if it’ll ever be enough. When will the threat be over, when will we be safe, when-”

Coughs interrupt him, leave him clutching the bars to stay upright and making his eyes water. When he manages to look up the canteen is right in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate to take it, hands shaking a little as he gets the cap off. The water is blessedly cool against his tongue, and it takes more effort than he’d like to slow his desperate gulps, his parched throat demanding more. He doesn’t let a single drop go to waste, and stops when there’s still half left.

Jacob is standing closer now. Close enough for Rook to grab him if he wanted, the key hanging around his neck presenting an obvious target. A taunt.

Instead, Rook nods in gratitude and rests his forehead against the metal bar. “I joined young. Too young, but they didn’t know. And I was good enough that no one looked too close, not when they realised my ‘potential’.” He gives a humourless smile. “I didn’t like it much. Didn’t like listening to orders, you aren’t wrong there, but I did it. Did everything they asked of me, and lived despite it all. But I needed it. And when I got what I needed, I left.”

“What did you need?” There’s a careful, reluctant kind of interest in Jacob’s voice. Like he wants to stop asking questions, to walk away and leave Rook to his trials, but he can’t.

“Isn’t it obvious? I needed strength, Jacob.” He sighs, an old, bone-deep satisfaction warming his chest. Still just as potent years later. “Once I had it, I knew I was ready.”

When he doesn’t say anything more, Jacob frowns. “Ready for what?”

Rook shakes his head and backs off from the bars, dizziness almost toppling him until it passes. “That’s enough for today. We can chat tomorrow if you like. Just bring some food, yeah?”

He turns his back and settles down to get some sleep, blatantly ignoring the weight of Jacob’s glare. Guys like this, you can’t let them see you squirm or they’ll think they have the upper hand. Rook can play this game for as long as he needs to. He knows he’ll survive this. Always does.

* * *

So. Starving kind of sucks.

Yeah, yeah, quite the revelation there. It’s almost like having your stomach trying to eat itself _isn’t_ a good thing. He’s getting real skinny too, which is going to be a pain to build back up. Would be great if he wanted to lose some weight, though. Nothing quite like the Jacob Diet to lose those extra pounds - or a few stone.

The training sessions get worse, too. More intense and longer stretches of time, leaving him curled up and aching afterwards. Leaves him with blood under his nails but no injuries after one session, so it’s a safe bet he actually killed someone this time. There’s no corpses or blood in the cell, making it hard to be sure. Which is great. He loves killing people and having no idea he did it.

A guard brings him food when he keeps passing out one day. Some sort of soup, watery and thin and tasteless, and the best meal he’s ever had. He has enough restraint to eat slow so he won’t throw up, and is in a cheerier mood when Jacob stops by later, even with his stomach twisting at being fed after so many days of nothing but water.

He’s got Rook’s knife again. Maybe thinks Rook has an attachment to his weapons? Lots of people do; favourite rifles or lucky knives, little pieces of sentiment they can’t let go of even in shitty situations. Rook knows better. He’s got his gloves, and those he left behind in the safety of his bunker. A childhood of having anything he showed a preference towards be destroyed or taken away taught him better.

Rook’s sat down this time, shoulder resting against the bars. One of the guards drag over a metal chair for Jacob to use, still leaving him looking down on Rook but at an angle that doesn’t hurt Rook’s neck so bad. Nice of them. Probably meant to be an insult, actually, considering Rook doesn’t get a chair or even a sleeping bag.

“Do you know how many people you’ve killed since you came to Hope County?”

The question earns a raised eyebrow. There isn’t any anger in Jacob. No, his voice is as flat as his expression, for all that he’s watching Rook closely. Turning the knife over in his hands, one slow revolution after another.

“No. Lost track some time in Holland Valley.”

“You don’t remember any of them?”

“None were particularly memorable.” Rook hums thoughtfully. “Except the ones who got a hit in. Sometimes left those few alive, if I was feeling nice.”

The knife stills. “It was a test. Attacking the Center…All that, to test us.” Jacob’s jaw clenches and his lips twitch up into something sardonic and cold. “How did that go for you, Deputy?”

“Ugh, I know.” Rook frowns and leans his cheek against the bars. “I’m getting rusty. Used to be I could clear a place like this in fifteen, twenty minutes.” His breath leaves him in a gusty sigh. “S’my fault for sticking with contract killings lately. Haven’t taken on big groups since those scorpion-obsessed mercenaries kept sending their people after me, so I’m out of practice.”

A pause, and then there’s cold metal against his throat. Rook peers up at Jacob in confusion, and is met with a suspicious scowl.

“You think this is a game. One you have even the slightest chance of winning.” The knife presses harder against his skin, but he doesn’t move. Lets it reach the point of slicing the slightest bit in, and feels warmth trickle down his neck. His shirt really is a lost cause by this point.

Jacob’s gaze drops to the shallow wound, and he slowly draws the knife back to rest the tip under Rook’s chin, forcing his head up. “You’re a good liar, Deputy. Had me fooled back in the church, just like everyone else.” He sounds almost impressed, abruptly changing tracks from his previous mood. “What changed? Why give up the pretence now?”

He hasn’t, though. Not entirely. It’s mostly around the Seeds that this more honest side of him comes out, which is- kind of worrying, yet also expected. They’re the reason he’s still here, the ones holding his attention and making this experience so very memorable. Some part of him wants them to know who he is. To know just who’s burning their operation to ashes.

He wants them to look at him, and see exactly who they named as Hell. They made him their enemy and Rook? Well, he does love exceeding expectations.

“You gave me a gift,” he says, recalling water dragging at his legs and Joseph’s hands on him all those weeks ago, recalls _You’ve been given a gift._ “You’ve earned the right to know your killer a little better, don’t you think?” Not to know everything, the parts Rook doesn’t want to tell. Nothing he can’t control his reaction to. But they’ve earned this much.

"My killer?" Jacob smiles flatly. “From where I’m standing, you don’t look like much of a threat anymore.”

“Don’t I?” Rook smiles, easy and light and without the slightest concern for the knife at his neck. “Then why are you talking to me? Why are all you Seeds so very… _interested_ in what I have to say?” His smile widens, turns sharper. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Jacob’s fingers tighten around the handle. “If it were up to me, you’d have been dead a long time ago. But Joseph-”

“Is wrong,” Rook interrupts, irritation creeping in. “And you know it. You’ve seen what I’m capable of, Jacob. You understand that I’m just gonna keep cutting down your people until there’s no one left, and then I’ll come for your family. It’s the only way this ends, unless you put me down first.”

Jacob’s eyes darken at the threat to his family, and the knife tip dimples the vulnerable area under Rook’s chin. Doesn’t pierce it yet, but the warning is clear. “Joseph sees another path for you, and he’s trusted me to take you down it. Kicking and screaming, if need be.”

The knife drops and Jacob stands, looming over him. “You’ll learn your place soon enough. Your purpose.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“You were a soldier once, Deputy.” Jacob reaches into his jacket, and Rook closes his eyes before he sees the music box. This is a routine he knows well by now. “You can become one again. But this time, you’ll be serving a cause much greater than yourself. A war that actually means something.”

“Y’know what, Jacob?” Rook exhales a soft, amused breath. “You’re a pretty good liar, too.”

* * *

There are moments in between.

Moments where he isn’t so lucid. When he’s coming down off one of the training sessions, red leaking into the edges of his vision and he’s unable to suppress the shaking of his limbs. When he’s pressed up in the corner of the cage opposite the door, nails digging into his neck and eyes on the door, never looking away for a second and tensing every time someone comes close. When every sound is amplified a hundred times over, drowning him in clangs of metal and gunfire and soft, familiar voices and phantom hands in his hair.

There’s nightmares that leave him waking with screams trapped behind his teeth. There’s shivering in the night and missing the warm bodies he’s grown so used to. There’s watching guards, wolves, hostages and seeing nothing but targets. Picking them apart, finding every weakness and flaw and planning how to deal with them.

There’s faking at unconsciousness. There’s waiting for the guard to enter, laying still and silent. There’s kicking out, scrambling on top of the struggling body - weak, so weak, need to move faster - and driving his fist into the man’s throat one, two, three times.

There’s being pulled off the body and fighting against the guards, fighting his own failing body. Killing two more, injuring a third. There’s being thrown into the bars and something injected into his skin and the world going hazy and slow and _kind._

There’s laying in the dirt, barely aware and eyes mostly closed, and Jacob Seed watching him with an impressed curl to his lips.

* * *

On the sixth day, Pratt shows up.

He scuttles in behind Jacob, head ducked and every inch of him screaming of restrained terror. In the daylight the bruising on his eye and jaw looks worse - or maybe it’s new, seems fresh enough to have happened recently. He freezes for a split second when he spots Rook, then keeps moving with a darted glance at Jacob.

Rook doesn’t bother getting up from where he’s splayed on the ground. His legs are shaky as fuck right now, and he doesn’t feel like testing them. Besides, he thinks it bothers Jacob that he doesn’t get up and stand at attention like a good soldier. Pettiness is always a good motivation.

Days of this is…taking its toll, he’ll admit. Sleeping is getting difficult. Can’t have his eyes shut long without seeing targets rushing at him, and he startles awake searching for a weapon after getting only an hour or so of rest. Sometimes, when the hunger gets bad, he feels like he’s back in the apartment. Thinks he can feel wiry carpet under his fingers and hear distant yells carrying the promise of violence.

During those moments, finding himself back in this cage is a relief.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to take care of your tools?” His eyes shift from Pratt to track over the scattering of wooden boards that cover the top of the cage, thickest in the corner and providing fuck all for protection when it rained yesterday. He ended up soaked and shivering, but on the bright side he was able to clean up a bit.

He hears Jacob’s footsteps slow to a halt beside the cage, catches a glimpse of him in his peripherals. Jacob looks more relaxed today. Like things are going well for him. Without Rook out there messing things up in the region, he’s probably having an easier time. There’s certainly a few more Whitetails locked up in cages around him, any of their attempts at speaking with him quickly shut down by the guards.

“It’s also necessary to temper them,” Jacob says. “To test for weakness, and remove it by any means necessary. The weak have their place, but there’s no room for that here. Not in the world we’ll be entering.”

There’s a metallic ringing when Jacob taps against the cage’s bar with his knife - his own, this time. He wants Rook’s attention, and when he sees the food and water Pratt sets down on a table just outside the cage, Rook decides to oblige.

Levering himself up takes an irritating amount of effort. He’s getting weaker by the day. Still keeps to his schedule of pacing the cage, doing sit-ups and push-ups, but it tires him out quicker every time. It’ll make escape difficult. Not impossible, but it won’t be easy.

However, it isn’t time yet. He isn’t _done_ with Jacob Seed. Coming here had been purely to piss him off, to take back control, but now…Now he wants to know if that glint of something worth his interest is really there or not. If there’s more to Jacob, just like his brothers.

It’s a test, but not the one Jacob thinks it is.

Chair legs scrape against the ground as Pratt pulls it over. There’s a short knife in Pratt’s hand, and Rook watches curiously as Pratt stares at it while Jacob sits. A resigned look sits heavy on Pratt’s face, smothering fear and humiliation and pure, honest desperation. There isn’t much left of the cocky deputy he used to be.

“Did you know it takes ten days for civilisation to collapse?”

Jacob’s words drag his attention back over, watching as Jacob tips his head back and Pratt puts the blade to his throat. Then, rather than slicing into it, Pratt drags the knife slowly and carefully against the skin. Trimming the stubble.

A power play, huh? Show him how broken Pratt is, which might have more of an effect if Rook actually cared about the guy. Seems Joseph kept that to himself, too. Or maybe he’s giving a demonstration of what Rook will be like by the end of his programme. Scared and obedient, so completely under his control that he won’t even take a chance to kill him when it’s so clearly offered.

C’mon, Jacob. Do better than this.

“You take away a man’s basic needs and he’ll revert to his primordial instincts in just ten days.”

Rook thinks he’s in for a lecture on strength, one he’s heard so many fucking times over the speakers around here. But Jacob surprises him.

Instead, Jacob talks about Iraq. About an ambush that left Jacob and a fellow soldier separated from their unit, lost, walking endlessly with no hope of survival.

“And by the eighth day, the wolves were closing in.” Jacob turns on the seat to face him, Pratt backing off and standing to the side, hands clasped in front of him and head lowered.

“And I looked at Miller and I could tell we’re as good as dead. And I accepted that.” His tone remains even and measured as he shares his experience of being on the brink of death. A story he’s told more than once, one he’s run over a thousand times until he knows the way he wants to remember it.

Jacob looks up at the sky, something almost peaceful flitting across his scarred features. “And in that acceptance, came clarity.” His eyes flick back down to Rook, focus in on his audience. And Rook listens, matches the intensity for all that his face is expressionless.

“You see, I wasn’t just looking at Miller.” Rook’s close enough to the bars for Jacob to reach through, doesn’t resist as he’s dragged to his feet by the hand curled into his shirt. Jacob’s grip gives him the stability he needs to stay upright, and he takes a hold of the bars in case Jacob lets go. “I was looking at an opportunity. It wasn’t something I wanted. It was something that I had to do.

“It was…” Jacob glances away, searching for the right word. His lips twist up faintly, a small, wry movement. “It was my test. Now you see, Miller’s sacrifice wasn’t about me walking out of that desert. It was about bringing me here.”

Did Jacob decide that, or is it something Joseph told him?

Because Rook can see it. A man shattered by war, by a horrific experience, lost without a war to fight for. And then his brother finds him. Tells him it was all a test, that everything he did was necessary to lead him to his rightful place. That he’s needed. Then, gives him the opportunity to impose his views on other people. To break them down just like he’d been broken, and prove his pain has meaning. Has use.

“Maybe dying in that desert would’ve been the kindest thing to happen to you,” Rook says quietly, gaze contemplative as he takes in the slight flex of the tendons in Jacob’s arm. “Less nightmares that way.”

He looks at Jacob, and wonders how often he thinks the same. If he wishes it’d all ended there, that he could finally stand down and give up the fight. Maybe not. Jacob doesn’t seem the type to ever give up. Not after what he’s been through.

“What will you do, when the end comes?” He recalls one of John’s broadcasts. “Seven years underground. No one to fight. No war to win.” He hums softly. “It’d be suffocating. A slow death, one that takes a piece of you each day, until you’re a danger to everyone you care about.”

Jacob’s fingers curl tighter in his shirt, the possibility of violence thrumming through every inch of him. But he doesn’t hit him, doesn’t back off either. Just stares at him, anger shifting to a careful sort of consideration.

“I don’t know what kind of world we’ll emerge to,” he admits, voice softer now. Quiet enough that Pratt likely can’t hear. “No paradise, that’s for sure. Other people will have survived. We’re like cockroaches that way. And they’ll see us, see our supplies and weapons and ability to survive, and they’ll want it for themselves. They’ll try to take it from us. Destroy us, just like you’re trying to do now.

“And we’ll be ready for them.” He leans closer, a grim smile on his face. “We will cull the herd.”

Rook tries to imagine it. A constant test for survival, against desperate people driven by hunger and need. Not just people, but the world itself, because Rook’s been paying attention to Denise’s warnings and the radio broadcasts from outside. Humanity in crisis, and too many fingers on triggers with the potential to swallow the earth in flames. Even if the radiation clears, there’ll be a nuclear winter. Animals dead, food sources ruined, water poisoned. A struggle just to live another day.

The aching anticipation catches him off guard.

“A fight without end,” he says quietly, longing twined through the words. Never stopping. Never having to be anything but what you are in the moment. “Where the only thing that matters is strength.”

“You understand, don’t you?” Unguarded surprise flashes across Jacob’s features, makes the blue of his eyes seem brighter. “Then why play at being a hero? Why side with Eli and the Resistance?”

“Because I don’t believe,” he responds simply, mouth pulling into a hard frown. “I need a fight that’s _real,_ that I can see. Not one promised to me by people trying to manipulate me.”

Rook draws back from where he’s leaned close to the bars, moving as far as he can with Jacob still gripping his shirt. Too weak to pull himself free of the hold. “I won’t be your soldier, Jacob. Nothing you do will change that.” If he really thought he couldn’t overcome Jacob’s conditioning, he’d shoot himself in the head.

And he thinks Jacob can see that now, because with one last searching look he lets go. Steps back, and this time doesn’t play his music box. Instead, he leaves the food and water on the table and walks away, his parting words making Rook straighten on shaking legs.

“Joseph will be by soon to speak with you. We’ll see if you feel the same way afterwards.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: referenced assisted suicide

“This is gonna go badly,” Rook tells Wolfy - yeah, he named the potential Judge Wolfy, he’s shit at names and everyone knows it - before gulping down the soup his guard left him. Nervous guy, could barely look Rook in the eyes. It’s only because of the distinctive scar cutting across his nose that Rook recognises him as one of the people he spared when attacking the Veterans Center.

Which, speaking off, he’s still a little salty about the lack of damage. Sure, he took out a wall and he can’t see the bit of the building he partially collapsed, and there are still bloodstains from the bodies that’ve been cleared away. But he was kind of hoping to force Jacob to move bases. Have more of an impact than a bit of mess.

Wolfy eyes him through the bars, and the growl it gives is distinctly less aggressive than it was in the beginning. Rook likes to think it’s warmed up to him. Either that or whatever training it gets isn’t going well, supported by the ribs on clear display. Most of the Judge wolves aren’t in great condition though, fur falling out in patches and eyes wild, so a bit of skinniness doesn’t necessarily mean this one is failing its own tests.

Rook washes down the soup with some water, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing away at his gut. Not much longer, now. He’s- starting to fray a little. Too many days with barely any food or drink, sleeping in restless moments, and those fucking training sessions. There isn’t anything left in him to break, not like how Jacob wants him broken, but he is getting tired of this. The edges of his mind getting a little blurrier with every day that passes, bringing up unwanted memories that leave him frozen and silent for hours, trapped in his own head.

Day nine, probably. And by the restlessness of his guards, he’s betting that today is going to be Joseph’s visit.

Rook flops onto his back, arm covering his face and blocking out the sun. He tries to muster the energy to be properly angry at Joseph. Fails. Gets annoyance at best, and blames the Bliss for making it hard to hold onto any harsher emotion. It’s got to be lingering in his system after so many training sessions. Though he isn’t sure what sort of blend Jacob uses, considering the effects definitely differ from those that’ve been used before.

Fucking Bliss. Didn’t take long for Joseph to forget about that promise, huh? Because he sure as hell knows Rook is here, has given Jacob his approval, and now he wants to check in on his little pet project. It’s a bit disappointing that he didn’t even try sticking to his word, but Rook supposes he can’t expect much better from an insane cult leader.

“Excuse me?”

It takes a moment - and a repetition - to realise the woman is speaking to Rook. He drops his arm and raises his head, blinking at the cultist standing outside his cage. She stiffens under his gaze, boots shifting against the ground as she moves into a firmer stance. The grey coat marks her as a Chosen, if the bow on her back didn’t already give it away. Not one he recognises.

“Can I help you?” Hey, this is the first person other than Jacob to talk to him in days. He can be polite.

Him speaking just seems to make her more nervous. She visibly regains control of herself, releasing the tension in her shoulders and darting a quick look around. No guards are close by, won’t be for another five minutes as they switch out for the next rotation. Rook puts the lapse down to the strain he’s put on their numbers. Oh, and whatever the Whitetails are doing, of course.

“I wanted-” She clears her throat, taking a half-step closer. Still out of his reach. Smart. “I wished to speak with you.”

He sits up, one knee drawn to his chest as he eyes her curiously. A cultist, one of Jacob’s people at that, wanting to speak with him? Interesting.

“About?”

“You said that you’re testing us, that you find us wanting, and you’ve killed so many of us-” she says in a rush, and she looks younger than most of his guards. Mid-twenties, maybe. Must be a good fighter to be considered a Chosen despite her age. “-but for what purpose? Why are you testing us? Why have you killed some and let others live?”

A bemused frown pulls at his mouth. Have they actually been taking his speeches seriously? He kind of thought they’d just dismiss them, nothing more than a momentary distraction or - with that first guy - stress relief. But here’s a Chosen looking to him for answers. Wary and guarded, yet desperate for whatever he has to say.

Isn’t this unexpected.

Part of him wonders if she was sent by Jacob, a new method of figuring Rook out. But the way she awaits his answer with bated breath, watching him with an intensity that could rival any Seed - that’s all real. And Rook considers how to play this. Some honesty, maybe. An opportunity to push at the beliefs these cultists hold onto so tight.

“You’re all just obstacles to me. Nothing more than targets standing between me and my goal.” He lets his voice go flat, an empty calm that has the Chosen flinching minutely. “I could kill you, so I did. And no one stopped me.”

It’s easy to end a life. Always so easy. People really are fragile, at the end of the day. Harder to keep alive than it is to kill them. And death is natural, so killing must be as well. Why else would he be so good at it?

“But I can be…” He searches for the right word, pushing past the fog of exhaustion and hunger. “Fickle. Didn’t kill John’s men when I went to his ranch. Saved a boy from a cougar even after seeing the cross on his chest. Then I came here, and all I could hear is Jacob talking about strength and purpose and culling the herd.”

He tilts his head, watching the Chosen with a mild smile. “And I was angry. Because in the end, strength is a lie we tell ourselves so we don’t crumble under the weight of an uncaring world. A belief that we can change anything, actually _change_ it rather than being the one changed. Anyone who claims to have strength, to _know_ it, is lying both to themselves and to you.”

“Then what should we do?” she demands, grabbing onto the bars and glaring at him. “Just give in? Become _weak_ like everyone else, never striving for anything more?”

“It’s human to be weak.” A hand in his, so very cold but finally free. Dirt under his nails, scrabbling against dense wood as he runs out of time, each breath terrifyingly shallow. Pushing on, smiling and smiling and never seeing the knife coming. “It’s also human to fight. To find the will to survive, no matter what you give up in exchange.”

“How is that different from strength?”

He laughs, the sound scraping up his throat. Braces himself, and shoves up to his feet. “The difference is-” He takes a step forward, forces his legs to stay up under him and feels the grin carve into his face. “When you fight to survive, to _live,_ to prove to the whole damn world that it won’t be getting rid of you today-”

He shakes his head, heat creeping into his voice as he grasps onto the bar just above the Chosen’s hands. “When you push yourself to the point where death would be a blessing, and still get up again? You’ll never feel weaker. You’ll want it to end, to finally be enough, because you fucking _tried!”_

She doesn’t flinch from his yell. Doesn’t look away, eyes wide and face pale.

“You tried,” he says softly, drawing back the star-bright burst of anger until it simmers quietly in his chest, a warmth he’s missed. “And today, it was enough. Tomorrow, you’ll have another chance to prove you deserve to live.”

Sympathy gentles his smile, removes the sharpness from it but leaving something heavy in its place. “And the day you stop challenging yourself, when you think you’re finally strong enough, that no one can hurt you now? You may as well be dead already.”

She doesn’t linger for long after that. Leaves within the next minute, but not without another unreadable glance sent his way. He waves and sinks down with his back to the bars, his outburst draining away what little energy he has and making him use up half his water supply for the day.

Well. That was fun.

* * *

He’s half-asleep with his side against the front of the cage, drifting in that calm, empty space he rarely gets to experience and ignoring Jacob looming a short distance away, when Joseph arrives.

First thing he notices is that Joseph has a shirt on for once. He doesn’t know if it says more about him or Joseph that this is his initial thought upon seeing him. The next is that it’s the same style of shirt as the one in the video where Joseph gouged a man’s eyes out. Hopefully he isn’t looking for a repeat of that.

The flames from a nearby barrel fire glint off the yellow aviators Joseph never seems to be without - fashion statement, or light sensitivity? - as he greets Jacob. Their appearances are neatly opposing; the scarred, war-torn veteran, and the man of God. Only a few shared features mark them as brothers, alongside the comfortable familiarity they hold with each other.

There are more guards than usual. Normally, there’ll be one within a few metres, two more further down, and patrols of two every couple of minutes. Ignoring the ones on the roof, too. Right now, there are unfamiliar guards milling around at a respectful distance. All watching him, ready and waiting, or observing their surroundings in case of a Resistance attack.

Rook doubts that’ll happen. The Resistance don’t have the numbers to take on the Veterans Center, not without risking every bit of ground they’ve gained recently. That’s if they even know Joseph is here, considering how Eden’s Gate has been pretty good at keeping his movements hidden. He knows the Cougars have tried to track him down when he leaves the safety of the Compound, Dutch as well, but there’s been no success on that front.

He sees Joseph approach but doesn’t bother to move. Doesn’t have the energy to. His little outburst earlier really wasn’t the best idea in the world, huh?

Joseph lowers himself to one knee, so close and ignorant to what Rook can do even in this condition. Or uncaring. His expression is unreadable as he looks Rook over, revealing little of what he’s feeling. The only thing Rook can pick out is that he doesn’t look particularly satisfied to see him in this state.

“Joseph,” Rook greets, cheek resting against the bars. His voice is rough and painful after days of little water (of waking curled up on the ground, his mouth dry and throat aching like he’s been screaming), but he ignores the pain with practised ease. If the Seeds think this is enough to break him, they’ve got another thing coming.

“Rook. I would like you to know that if I believed there was another way, I would have chosen it.”

Rook can’t help the bark of laughter that tears out of him. It doesn’t last long, too weak and hoarse. “Another way for what?” he asks, humouring him. Doesn’t say that part of him appreciates that Jacob treats him like the danger he is, the threat he presents. Nothing like Joseph’s certainty in his own invulnerability.

“You must be strong. Strong enough to survive in the new world, to be ready for the ways in which it will test you.” Joseph’s fingers close around the bars on either side of Rook. “I know you are strong - you have proven that already. But it isn’t enough. You must show that you are willing to let go of your remaining tethers to the world we will leave behind. Only then can you accept your new family and finally stand by our side. I see that now.”

Strength. He feels like he’s heard that word more times in the past weeks than he has in his entire life. At some point it’s going to lose all meaning, and his own relationship with the concept was already twisted before coming here.

He looks at Joseph, and wonders just what he thinks he sees. He knows what Joseph’s said. Has every word memorised, and he’s tracked over the inconsistencies, the attempts at contradicting arguments. Each said with a conviction that never falters. Is Joseph simply that good of a liar, or does he really believe it all despite the opposing views?

“Did you know I had a wife?”

Rook blinks at the abrupt shift in topic, and when Joseph offers his arm out his gaze is drawn to it. There’s a tattoo of a woman on the inside of his forearm, one he’s absently noted but never thought much about.

“I didn’t. It wasn’t part of the briefing.” It wasn’t in Joseph’s book, either. A part of himself he chose not to reveal even to his followers, despite etching her image into his skin.

“I suppose they wouldn’t think it worth mentioning.” Joseph traces the woman’s face, half-hidden by flowers that look like the ones which produce Bliss. It’s too dark to know for sure. “So beautiful, isn’t she? We were pregnant with our first child. And we were just babies ourselves, really.”

It’s difficult to imagine Joseph having a wife, a baby on the way. Difficult to see him as anything except what he is now, what he’s become in his role as the Father. An entire life before he came to Hope County, one Rook only knows about through the dubious reliability of that book of his, and a briefing so thin he may as well have skipped it.

“And I was terrified.” The admission brings a smile to Joseph’s face. There’s an openness there that Rook hasn’t seen before. The distant air he holds himself with abruptly dissipated, in favour of something more human. Something within reach.

“Of becoming a father. Mostly about money.” Again, it creates an image that just doesn’t fit with the Joseph Seed who lit a county on fire in his quest to save it. Someone with normal concerns and fears, his vision of the future occupied by only two people. “She wasn’t worried. She had faith that things would work out. She always had faith.”

Joseph closes his eyes briefly, old grief flitting across his expression. “And then one day, she was going to visit a friend. There was an accident.”

“What happened?” Rook asks, almost despite himself. The hollowness in Joseph’s voice makes it clear just how this ends. There’s no wife standing at Joseph’s side, no son or daughter.

His question brings Joseph’s focus back to him, eyes hazy with memory. Like all he sees is the moment he’s describing. “They rushed me to the hospital and put me in a room with this little pink bundle stuffed with tubes. And they said that I had to be strong, because my little girl was going to live. God was looking out for our daughter.”

And suddenly, Rook doesn’t want to listen to what comes next. Doesn’t want the cold weight that settles in his gut when he hears where this is heading. Tests. Strength- he doesn’t want to know.

But he listens, doesn’t look away as Joseph describes his daughter, his usually unflinching stare interrupted by rapid blinks for all that he keeps speaking.

“And in that moment, I knew that God was testing me.” All that human vulnerability vanishes, replaced with blind certainty and endless, unshakable belief. By faith. “He was laying out a path before me and all I had to do was choose. So I put my hand on my little girl’s head and I leaned in and I could smell…” He trails off, voice faltering just slightly, grief and something that could be regret shaking free of his conviction.

“And we prayed together. Prayed for wisdom. Prayed for strength.” His expression closes off, distance building up once more. Like it never left. “Then I knew. I heard God’s plan for me. And I took my fingers and I put them on that little plastic tube that was taped to her angelic face, and I pinched it shut. And after a little while, her legs began to kick and kick…and then nothing. Stillness. Release.”

Joseph leans closer, each word settling heavy as it leaves his mouth. “The Lord giveth and the Lord…taketh. Pain, sacrifice - these are all part of His test. And we have to prove that we can serve God…no matter what He asks.”

In the lull of Joseph’s speech - a confession without any desire for absolution - Rook considers him. Feels the dryness in his throat, the aches and warning signs his body hasn’t given up on sending, a blur of distorted pain with the haze of exhaustion clinging to his mind.

“Sacrifice…” A soft, bitter exhale leaves him. “You think I’ve never sacrificed anything?”

“I know you have struggled. Your life has not been an easy one, and you bear its scars.” Some of that condescending familiarity winds back through Joseph’s words, and Rook grits his teeth. “But this goes beyond that. To do what God asks, to face this final test-”

“I’ve _been_ tested.” Rook twists, facing the bars fully and wrapping his fingers tight around them. “I sacrificed everything that mattered to me because it was the best option I had. The _merciful_ one,” he spits the words out, acid filling his mouth.

Joseph pauses. “What did you do?”

The memories rise up in a wave he can’t stand against, can’t push back down like he usually does or smother under distractions. He’s got no defences to it now, and all he can do is face them. Feel them, every twist of horror and grief and the cold, aching certainty that he’s a monster.

And there’s Joseph looking at him expectantly. Waiting for his answer. And- if anyone could understand, maybe he can. Maybe.

(Maybe the Bliss loosens his tongue, draws out a story he’d never usually reveal. Maybe he’s tired and in pain and the countless training sessions have taken their toll, left him grasping for human connection.

Or maybe he wants someone to hear it, to remember her if Rook dies. Maybe he wants the terror and comfort of being known by another person.)

“I didn’t want to,” he says quietly, gaze dropping to the buttons on Joseph’s shirt. “But she was- scared. I’d never seen her so scared.” He can see her eyes so clearly. The same shade of green as his, the only feature they shared when he took after his father in everything else. Rimmed red and shining with tears she couldn’t stop, each sob choked against her palm. They both knew to keep quiet, even when his dad was gone.

“She was holding something, and I was ten but I wasn’t stupid. I knew what a pregnancy test looks like.” The box had been discarded on the ground, half-way to the bathroom door from where she stood by the dresser. The white of it stood out against the mess of clothes and bottles and boxes, the top ripped off like she’d hurried to get it open.

“And she saw me. I-” A breathless sound too hollow to be a laugh leaves him. “It took a while. I was good at being quiet. Seen, not heard, and usually not seen at all. But she saw me and she held me and she said- she said she was pregnant.”

He doesn’t realise he’s smiling until he feels the sting of it. “And I was happy, y’know? That I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I’d have a little brother or sister, and I’d make sure they were _safe._ I’d look after them. I was so sure I-” He swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “I’d be a good brother. I really wanted to be.”

In those short few seconds, he had it all planned out. He’d watch over them, make sure they didn’t trip over anything dangerous in the apartment or touch anything that could hurt them (a hot pan, the stove, knives left out on the counter, broken shards of glass, empty needles - old scars that never quite fade). He’d teach them to read and write, to sign as well, and he’d introduce them to Miss Maria. He’d show them all the tricks he’d learnt to avoid his dad’s attention. Help them understand his mom’s moods, that she really did love them no matter what she said in her bad moments.

Light pressure against his wrist draws his gaze up to Joseph’s face, solemn and attentive. “What happened?”

“She knew my- my dad wouldn’t be happy. Couldn’t afford another kid, couldn’t afford _me_ but I was old enough to be useful. A baby would…”

Winters when the apartment got so cold he could see his breath, and he had to pull blankets over his mom because she was too out of it to be aware that she’d freeze to death. Illnesses that swept through the neighbourhood, thinning out the young and old and weak, because no one who lived where he did had the money for a doctor or medicine. Anything stolen from a pharmacy wasn’t guaranteed to be enough, and could bring the cops down on you.

Rook was one of the lucky ones. There was no guarantee his sibling would be.

“He’d be angry. And he was always angry lately.” Drinking more than normal, picking fights with anyone he could and having raging arguments with Rook’s mom that always ended one way. “If he found out, got like that again, we wouldn’t survive it. I don’t even- I don’t think she would’ve lived through another pregnancy. She was in so much pain…”

When she’d stopped crying, she’d drawn back from him and carded her fingers through his hair, a watery smile on her face. _I need you to do something for me, Rook. I need you to help me._

And he’d understood. She couldn’t keep the baby, and couldn’t abort it either. Not with their lack of money and how weak she was. If the baby somehow did make it to term - what kind of life would it have had? She couldn’t offer it any better. Didn’t have the will to try.

“I think she just needed an excuse. An out. A sign that she’d gone as far as she could and…she could stop now. And this was it.”

He looks past the memories that threaten to drown him. Past the image of his own, smaller hands as they shook, past the echo of hitching breaths and copper filling his mouth when he bit through his lip.

Looks at Joseph’s steady expression, and the quiet sympathy there.

“So I helped her. I did what she asked, got it all ready. And I held her hand until she was gone.” He takes a breath, pretends it steadies him even half as much as he wishes it would. “And you know what she said before I killed her? She told me to survive. She told me to never let myself be hurt or used, to only fight for myself because the world sure as hell didn’t give a shit about me. She said she loved me, and then she _abandoned_ me.”

He shakes his head, trying to clear the dizziness and fog. “So don’t talk to me about sacrifice, okay? I’ve known pain and _tests_ and God wasn’t involved in a single one of them. Just people, and the fucked up choices they make.”

“I know it’s hard to see.” Joseph’s hand on his wrist is still there, grip a little firmer. “It’s easier to blame others or even ourselves than to understand there is a purpose behind it all. One that has lead you exactly where you need to be.”

Rook sighs. Feels every emotion draining right back out of him, sped along by exhaustion and the unfaltering belief in Joseph’s eyes. By the lack of disgust or horror, or even the judgement he and his brothers wear so often. “What if you’re wrong about me? About everything?”

“What if I’m right?”

That earns a faint upturn of Rook’s lips. “You’re really committed to this, aren’t you?”

He remembers the sermon. Remembers the realisation of how badly Joseph needs Rook to believe him, needs that final proof that he’s right. How it makes Rook more than a challenge or an enemy, reinforced each time Joseph refuses to kill him and every occasion where Rook rejects his offer to join them. Gives it all a weight it never should have had, but now does.

“Tonight, you’ve allowed me to glimpse a side of you which you’ve never revealed before. A humanity I’d wondered if you had buried entirely.” Joseph’s words are musing, but there’s nothing idle about the intensity of his focus. “You hide behind so many masks I don’t believe you know how to exist without them. But here, in this moment, you’ve given me your honesty. A precious memory drawn from a past you guard so carefully. Am I to take it as anything other than _proof_ that this does not have to end with us on opposing sides?”

“I don’t know.” Rook gives a faint, wry smile. “I am locked in a cage right now. Doesn’t scream potential allies.”

“It won’t be for much longer.”

Rook goes still when Joseph clasps the side of his neck, muscles tensing at the contact against such a vulnerable area. The next instinct - to grab Joseph’s arm and break it, or take advantage of the lack of distance and go for his throat - is harder to suppress. Too many days of fighting enemies that exist only in his head - as far as he knows - and an utter lack of positive contact. Nothing like the warmth of Joseph’s skin.

“You’ll keep fighting us, I know. You aren’t ready to give that up yet. And when you are, you’ll understand that all of this was necessary to take us where we need to be.”

Rook’s- oddly disappointed. “You want me to be one of your soldiers?” That’s what all of Jacob’s conditioning is building towards. He only needs to look at Pratt to see the end product.

A strange smile crosses Joseph’s face. “No. You are meant for a different purpose.”

He stands, drawing Jacob away to speak with him quietly. Rook tries to muster much in the way of hatred or aggression, the sharp anger at revealing a vulnerability to an enemy. Only finds a soft, wavering kind of relief (Joseph didn’t judge him, didn’t call him a monster, and now someone else knows-), and a tentative fondness.

He closes his eyes and tries not to think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I last looked at Rook's tragic back story and jeez, it really is just a conga line of shitty things happening to him.


	22. Chapter 22

The following morning, Rook is brought enough food to actually fill his stomach. Some variance too, even if it’s only toast, soup with vegetables in it this time, and a tangerine.

Rook frowns uncertainly as Pratt passes the food over. They don’t usually send Pratt to do this. Instead it’s a different guard every day, only a few of them repeatedly coming by his cage. This time only Pratt wavers in front of him, the cultists’ presence limited to a woman a few cages down, the regular patrol that’s just passed, and a sniper up on this side of the roof.

“What brought this on?” Despite his suspicion, he doesn’t hesitate to dig in. The hunger is a constant, distracting pain that each previous meal hasn’t come close to soothing, so he’ll make the most of this. Considering he’ll be escaping soon, it’s good timing.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just said to go get it.” There’s a strained edge to Pratt’s words, like each one is a struggle to get out, and he can’t seem to hold Rook’s gaze for long. But he isn’t leaving, either.

Rook considers asking how he’s doing, but it’s pretty blatant Pratt isn’t doing great. Being under Jacob’s control for weeks, forced to choose between standing by his beliefs and surviving? Yeah, that’d fuck anyone up. Honestly, it’s a decent accomplishment just to be coherent and without serious injury in this sort of environment. Rook will give him points for that at least.

“You got a question for me?” he asks instead, when Pratt continues to linger. The food’s gone in no time at all, leaving him with a protesting stomach and a few pieces of tangerine left, the soup bowl passed back to Pratt. There’s no need for him to still be here, not unless he wants something.

The question makes Pratt jerk, as if just realising he hasn’t moved. He shakes it off quick, darts a look around to see if anyone’s watching closely. “You- You lied to us.” He throws the accusation out, but there’s a lack of weight to it. A lack of challenge. “I know now, I know you aren’t Michael Rook. Everything you ever said, the way you acted - none of it’s true.”

So. Finally getting confronted over his fake identity. He doesn’t really count what Whitehorse said to him, not when there’d been no attempt at asking him about it. This, however? There’s something a little like betrayal in Pratt’s shadowed eyes.

Rook’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “Yeah, that’s right. I lied about who I was.” He tilts his head curiously. “You don’t need to take it personally, y’know. It ain’t like we were close.”

“You were one of us!” Pratt surges forward and grabs the bars, his knuckles white. “You were on our team and you lied about _everything._ We _trusted_ you.”

The outburst has honest confusion crossing Rook’s face. Why does Pratt care so much? Like he said, they weren’t close. Barely had more than a handful of conversations and some light hazing on Pratt’s part. A month wasn’t enough time for anything like this response to be expected. So why is he acting like Rook personally attacked him?

Rook taps a finger against his canteen, watching how Pratt’s gaze jerks to the motion. Decides on which angle to go with. No need to mock him, that’s just counterproductive to his eventual goal of rescuing him- hm. Could that be it? Part of it, anyway? Add on top whatever Jacob’s been saying to him, taunting him with, and that pained resentment makes some sense.

“I haven’t abandoned you.”

Pratt flinches like he hit him. “What-”

“I’m sorry it looked that way.” He uncrosses his legs and slowly pushes himself to his feet. He winces at the way his body protests, every muscle insisting he sit the fuck back down. Instead, he closes the short distance to the cage bars, taking a hold of them to keep upright, and doesn’t let the pain show. It’s not necessary right now.

“I’m being real slow about it, I know,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure where he was keeping you, then by the time I found out you’re usually with him - well, you’ve got a good idea of his security. Haven’t been at my best lately and I didn’t want to get you killed.”

Pratt shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re lying! He’s told me who you are, what you can do. You could’ve gotten me away any time you wanted, and-” His jaw works and when he looks at Rook there’s a desperate sheen to his eyes. “-why would you want to? You don’t care about us, we’re strangers. I don’t even know your fucking name.”

Rook gives a half-smile and softens his tone. “It really is Rook. That part’s real. And it doesn’t matter that we’re strangers; I was always gonna get you back. You know I’m a stubborn guy like that, don’t you?”

His words seem to hurt Pratt more than anything else. “It doesn’t matter,” he says in a defeated whisper. “It doesn’t matter, you’ll never succeed. He’s got you too now, he’s always watching and I can’t get you out. I can’t help you.” He grits his teeth. “I shouldn’t _want_ to.”

“Hey.” Carefully, Rook closes his hand over Pratt’s. Keeps the touch light and easy to pull back from as Pratt freezes, breath stuttering in his chest and body tensing. “It’s gonna be alright. We’ll get out of this.”

He goes to draw back, not wanting to induce a panic attack. But Pratt abruptly grabs his hand and holds tight enough for his nails to dig in, a choked sound ripping free. “Don’t say shit like that, don’t- don’t fucking lie to me about that, okay? I have to be strong. I _have_ to.”

“You are.” He leans in close, forcefully holding Pratt’s gaze. Lets firm certainty colour his tone. “You’re a survivor. You’ve made it this far on your own, and that takes more courage than anyone here’s ever seen. Now, you’ve got me as well.” He bares his teeth in a vicious grin. “They don’t stand a chance.”

Pratt swallows thickly, and Rook can see the wavering in his eyes. The uncertainty over who to believe, who he _wants_ to believe. Whether he can live through having his tentative hopes torn to shreds again.

“He’s told you what I’m capable of, right?” Rook gives Pratt’s hand a light squeeze, draws the grin into something more solemn. “The number of people I’ve killed, how easy it is for me. What I did to this place.” He waits until Pratt nods before continuing. “Then you know that I’ll get out of here, one way or another. It’s inevitable and everyone here knows it. S’why they’re so damn wary. And I’m taking you with me whether you like it or not, so you better get used to the idea.”

He lets go of Pratt and shifts back when he sees a patrol approaching. Nods at Pratt, and pretends that his body isn’t screaming at him to lay down, black spots spreading across his vision and barely beaten back from overwhelming it entirely. “Wait for the right moment. I’ll find you if I need to, and we’ll get out of this together.”

“You’re asking me to believe a guy who lied about his entire life,” Pratt points out, but he’s standing straighter than he has the entire time Rook’s seen him.

“If you can’t believe me, don’t.” He shrugs loosely. “You’re getting free anyway.”

Decision’s been made and there’s no going back. Rook’s going to get Pratt out of here one way or another. He was content to leave him be until now, more focused on his interest in the Seeds and a- let’s say, _natural_ progression in this game of theirs. But Rook figures he’s due a victory after the shit he’s put up with these past few days.

(If he happens to feel just a little bit of sympathy for Pratt’s position, a respect for how he’s held himself together despite everything - then that’s Rook’s business.)

Any response is interrupted by the cultists getting close, and Pratt leaves with one last backwards glance. Rook eyes the camera turned in their direction and hopes Pratt comes up with a good story for why they talked so long. Otherwise, his promise will be a lot harder to keep.

* * *

Then things go sideways.

And by sideways, Rook means that he’s outside his cage for the first time in ten days, and he didn’t have to kill anyone to do it. No, instead he’s got a highly armed cultist on each side and another behind him, gun trained on his head. At this point he’s counting himself lucky not to be cuffed as they lead him along, refusing to answer his questions about where they’re going.

It’d be a good opportunity to escape if every guard wasn’t currently on high alert. He catches sight of a sniper watching him from the rooftop, and there’s only so many places to duck behind when it seems like there’s a gun aimed his way every few steps. His ability to escape isn’t helped by how weak he is right now. The food earlier helped, but it can only do so much after days of near-starvation.

He’s pretty sure he could still take out at least one guard before the others react. Get his gun, use the body as a meat shield, and that’ll buy him a few seconds to find cover. But they’re heading the opposite direction to the gate, with the broken wall not in sight yet. Judging the right timing is going to be difficult.

They turn a corner, past all the cages and towards an area with targets set up in a make-shift gun range. There’s an open area with free weights under an overhang, and a couple of worn punching bags. Rook’s chances of running off drop drastically at the sight of at least fifteen cultists milling around, all eyes either on him or Jacob where he stands in the midst of the group. Not counting the ones going about their duties.

Oh, boy. This looks like a fun time.

“What’s this about, Jacob?” Bored indifference is an easy mask to wear. Especially when it makes Jacob’s eyes narrow like that. “Much as I appreciate getting to stretch my legs, I’m a busy man.”

“Don’t worry, Deputy. This won’t take up much of your valuable time.” Jacob’s attention shifts to the cultists. Mostly Chosen, and the heavy weight of anticipation in the air has Rook tensing as the guards leave him near the centre of the circle formed around Jacob. He’s got a feeling about where this is going.

“You’ve all heard the rumours about the Deputy here,” Jacob says. “About what he’s capable of. About the _strength_ he has. Some of you have witnessed it for yourself, have lived where others died.” Several people shift, and Rook’s eyes track over them. Recognises some. “Maybe you’re even familiar with one of his…speeches. Maybe you’ve been told that you must _earn_ the right to survive, with the Deputy as your judge.”

Jacob gestures, and a man steps forward. The last time Rook saw him his face was masked as some Chosen are, so he doesn’t recognise the sharp features and heavy brows. But he knows those grey eyes.

“Hello again,” Rook says, head cocked in interest. The man chose to live, then. Didn’t use the knife Rook threw down in front of him after stripping away his illusion of strength.

The man doesn’t respond, his jaw set and hands curled into fists at his side. It’s difficult to read his expression, kept forcefully blank as Jacob places a hand on his shoulder.

“Today, you’ll see that the Deputy is just a man. Fragile as any other.” Jacob turns to him, mouth twisting into a smile. “And just as easy to break.”

The Chosen isn’t the one picked to shed his weapons and step up to Rook. Instead, it’s a younger man with short blond hair and nervous energy making his movements twitchy. He controls it reasonably well, but as Rook shifts into a wider stance it’s easy to pick up on.

“We really doing this, Jacob?” Rook doesn’t bother to stifle his amusement and incredulity.

He thinks he gets it. This is a performance to show that Rook isn’t the boogeyman, isn’t some impossible to defeat super soldier. Having his people fight Rook when he’s weakened and in pain will cut through the fear so many of them hold of him, make him into something human and defeatable again. At the same time, getting the shit beaten out of Rook would - presumably - destroy any lingering arrogance and confidence in his own abilities. Not a terrible tactic, if rather blunt.

Too bad it won’t work.

“Begin,” Jacob orders, and the cultist hastens to obey.

Rook lets him get close. Got to conserve as much energy as he can, which means no big moves. So he waits, still and loose. He isn’t going to kill him. Jacob wants this to serve as a humiliation to Rook, as a way to destroy his myth. And if Rook is going to fuck that up for him, he needs plenty of survivors.

When the man is in reach, Rook shifts out of the way of the punch and snaps out a kick at the inside of his right knee. Bone gives way, and the man’s scream ends when Rook drives his elbow into his throat.

He steps back as two cultists pick the choking man up, dragging him off to the main building. The burst of movement was enough to leave him dizzy again. He’ll have to be careful if this is going to go on for a while.

“Next,” he calls before Jacob can.

Lo and behold, the cultists listen and soon he’s got himself a fresh new opponent.

It’s not the same as the Bliss-fuelled training sessions. In there, he’s nothing more than a mindless killing machine. There’s not much thought to strategy beyond the fastest way to rip through a target, no regard for his own state when it doesn’t matter in that hazy world. All that exists is the fight.

Here, it’s different. He’s aware of how much weaker and slower he is, reaction times dulled and limbs heavy with exhaustion. The cultists get hits in that they’d usually never come close to managing, catch him off guard when he should’ve seen a strike coming. He’s knocked to the ground more times than he can count, head ringing and blood rushing in his ears. Each time he gets up he’s shakier, less force behind his strikes and vision twisting.

But years of pushing himself to the brink come in handy here. He’s worked with a body at its limit, worked with blood loss and pain and broken bones. He knows how to drag himself back up when he falls, how to take a hit and keep going. Knows how to ignore the warning signs and dull himself to agony.

The world narrows down. He doesn’t lose awareness, but it focuses. Reduces to what he needs to pay attention to in the moment. What he needs in order to survive.

Raise his arms, block a hit, and drive his knee into an unprotected stomach. Pull, the crunch of bone, toss aside. Wait. Breathe. Head knocked back, pain pulsing through his jaw. Duck. Throw his weight forward, take them to the ground. Hands in hair. Smash their head down once, twice, until the body falls limp.

Get up. Stumble, then straighten.

Wait. Breathe.

Next.

There’s a rhythm to it that’s almost comforting. Familiar. The stretch and pull of muscles, an ache that differs from the ones he already has. Bruises beaten into his skin, and the sharp, nauseating pain of a rib cracking. He leans into it, gives himself over and still maintains an iron-clad control over his every action. Doesn’t go for kill strikes, even if he can’t guarantee that every injury is non-lethal.

(Notices, distantly, that people are slower to step forward. Some don’t at all.

The grey-eyed Chosen is one who doesn't.)

He pants heavily in one of the lulls between targets, blood dripping down his face from a broken nose. He flexes his fingers, loosens tense muscles and tries to contain the way he’s swaying on his feet. He can’t hear much over his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and there’s a dull ringing making that even harder.

The ground shakes - or maybe that’s just him - and he overbalances, drops to one knee and grunts as his ribs are jarred. Takes in a breath, then another, and pushes himself up. Or tries to, because his leg gives out on him and then his hands are in the dirt, getting it under his nails-

-hot, dry air that’s running out and panicked breaths, dirt streaming through thin cracks and he’s sobbing but he keeps going, has to keep going or he’ll die here. He’ll die and that’s just what _he_ wants and Rook can’t let that happen, he won’t, please don’t let him die here-

-and in a harsh shove he throws himself upward, stumbles forward but gets himself upright. Not yet. He can keep going. He _will_ keep going.

A fist slams into his cheek and he’s hitting the ground before the pain even registers. Then it’s ringing through his face, making his head pound. Hoarse, shaky laughter spills out of him as he just lays there for a moment, blood dripping into his mouth.

“Didn’t- ah, didn’t see that comin’.” Gotta pay more attention there Rook, don’t go getting sloppy now.

He starts to lever himself up when a boot stomps down on his hand. Something snaps like a brittle twig, but it isn’t his thumb or trigger finger so he isn’t too concerned. Does make it rather difficult to get up, and the boot doesn’t budge when he tries pulling back. Fair enough, Rook doesn’t have the energy to put much effort into it, but he’d still like his hand back.

So he throws his weight the other way, ripping his hand out from under the boot and unbalancing whoever stood on him. Also ends up ripping some skin off the back of his hand, but that’s no big deal. It’ll grow back.

He gets as far as having one knee under him again when someone moves in front of him, grabs a hold of his shirt, and socks him in the face. It knocks him onto his back, tooth catching on the inside of his cheek and tearing skin, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He groans, eyes squeezing shut as he begs the world to stop fucking spinning for just a second.

“Stay down.”

His muscles scream at him as he forces himself to sit up, the rush of adrenaline now nothing more than a tired slog. Can’t stop yet, though. Not yet. He drags himself up, every breath laboured and nausea swirling in his gut. But he does it. Slow as fuck, but his feet are under him even if he’s likely not going to last very long with the way his legs are shaking.

He lifts his head up, skull weighed down and splintering like his vision is, cracked at the edges. He blinks hard, forces the world into focus and sees Jacob standing right in front of him.

Rook expects another punch but it doesn’t come. Instead, fingers dig into the edge of his jaw, curl around the back of his neck, and stills the uncontrollable wavering. Rook tries to raise numb arms but he’s too fucking tired. It’s taking every bit of focus and lagging energy he has left to stay on his feet.

So he just looks at Jacob, takes in the grim line of his mouth and piercing glare, and breathes.

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Jacob finally says, voice hushed and tightly controlled. “You refuse to learn your lesson. There is no other outcome here, Rook. The sooner you see that, the sooner we can stop this.”

“No.” Rook swallows down blood, feels it stick in his throat and swallows again. “I can’t.”

“Why not? You know how this ends. There’s nothing you can do to change that, so why fight it?”

“What else can I do?” A laugh bubbles up in his chest, jerks his ribs and tumbles out of his mouth. “To live is to fight. So I’m going to keep- keep fighting you. And I won’t stop.” He tips his head further into Jacob’s calloused hand, feels the strength there and knows that Jacob is perfectly capable of snapping his neck. “Not until you kill me.”

“Is that what you want?” Jacob’s voice could almost be mistaken for gentle, if not for the harsh, searching edge to it. “To die?”

Rook tries to shake his head, can’t because of Jacob’s grip. “No, no, that ain’t it. Not allowed that.” He concentrates, gets the fingers of his left hand to move. Slowly tenses the muscles in his arm. “But- everything ends. One day. And dying at the hands of you or your brothers…” He smiles, something honest in it that’s a rarity for him. “That’d be a good end.”

He reaches out slowly, unnoticed when they’re so close together, and his fingers close around the hilt of Jacob’s combat knife. “But I won’t make it easy.”

He pulls the knife out the holster, twists it in his palm and stabs towards Jacob’s neck.

But Jacob’s reaction times aren’t fucked like Rook’s are. He’s already released Rook by the time the knife is moving towards him, and the blade drives into his shoulder instead of his throat. Rook throws himself forward anyway, forces it deeper and relishes in the way Jacob grits his teeth against a pained sound. He’s about to yank it across when Jacob’s fist slams into his gut.

It knocks the breath from him and he folds over the arm. Only instinct has him jerking back before Jacob’s knee can strike his face, fighting back the bile rising in his throat and struggling just to stay upright. Struggling to raise his arms, to ready himself for the next attack.

But the burst of movement has drained every last drop of energy he had left in him. Between one blink and the next, the world tips sideways and goes dark.


	23. Chapter 23

Rook’s changed his mind. He’s more than ready to die right this second.

Everything hurts. That should be an exaggeration, but no - _everything_ hurts. He’s zip-tied to the frame of a hospital bed in an otherwise empty room stinking of antiseptic, and he can’t even enjoy the chance to lay down on an actual mattress (thin as it is). It feels like bruises cover every inch of his body, melding with the sharper ache of broken bones - his nose, little finger and at least two ribs, in this case - and muscles pushed to the point of giving up entirely, into one agonising cacophony.

Even Rook’s _eyes_ hurt, so he’s keeping them closed for now. Not that there’s much to look at. His room doesn’t have a window, the walls a dreary grey and any furniture long since removed. Has a kind of office feel to it, and since he’s being treated for his injuries here, he’s assuming it’s close to the medical ward. Makes sense to use it for any injured, considering the space is already there.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened after the fight. Woke up here, already bandaged up and an IV drip stuck in his arm. A medic checked on him at one point when he was still half-aware. By her mutterings, Rook had been close to the edge a fair few times already, hence the special treatment.

It puts him in a much better position than before. Since he’s inside the hospital it offers far more cover and places to hide, as well as a bigger delay in someone realising he’s missing. There’s no one in the room with him, though he’s heard enough footsteps to bet on at least two being outside. Nothing here he can use as a weapon, but if he can disarm one of them that’s something he can use against the other.

Now he just needs to get the energy necessary for a successful breakout. Not easy when even the thought of standing up sends waves of pain through his body.

He’s debating the merits of trying to snap the zip ties, as opposed to giving himself a little longer to recover, when an explosion rocks the building.

Alarms blare within seconds, nearly overwhelming the distinctive sound of gunfire. Rook pulls against the ties, wishing he had a damn window so he could have some idea of what’s happening. That’s- a lot of gunfire. Comes in clearer when the alarms abruptly cut out. Can’t be all cultists, so the Resistance are attacking and it’s a large group.

But they’re too late to get Joseph. Faulty intel? Shit, this is such a waste of resources. Who knows how many people will die for nothing. Hopefully they realise quickly that Joseph’s not here, and get the fuck out.

Rook tenses when the door unlocks. He’s prepared to see a cultist come to make sure he hasn’t escaped in the chaos, or take him somewhere more secure.

He isn’t prepared for Jess Black to stride in.

He gapes at her as she cuts through the zip ties in sharp, efficient movements.

“You able to stand?” she asks shortly, frowning as she looks him over. “Peggies sure fucked you up good.”

He finds his voice, croaky as it is. “Jess? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass, what else? C’mon, y’need to get up. Distraction will only last so long.” With her help he’s able to - painfully - get off the bed and onto his feet, leaning heavily on her. The movement sends shards of glass piercing through every muscle. He grits his teeth against the pain and forces his limbs into cooperation, knowing they can’t afford to waste time limping along.

“Joseph isn’t here,” he tells her on the way to the door. “Jacob might be, haven’t seen him since yesterday.” He’s guessing it’s been a day since the fight. Hard to tell when he was unconscious for a while, especially without a window.

“He the one who did this to you?” Jess’ fingers tighten in his shirt, and he can hear the threatening growl in her voice.

Before he can answer, Tracey meets them at the door. The sight of her makes him blink. If seeing Jess threw him for a loop, it’s twice as bad with Tracey. For as long as he’s been fighting in Hope County, people have generally stuck to their own territories. There’s some movement, like Rook and whoever he drags along with him, but the Resistance factions keep to their own beyond sharing information and occasional backup. Considering who runs them, it isn’t a surprising strategy.

So Tracey really shouldn’t be here.

“Shit, Rook,” she breathes when she spots him. Then her expression firms and she grabs his arm to wrap it around her shoulders, still holding her gun in her free hand. “Addie’s waiting for us on the other side of the collapsed wall. Just gotta make it that far, okay?”

There are two corpses just outside the doorway; his former guards, presumably. Rook eyes the dropped guns, but knows if he tries reaching down for one he’s going to fall over. Jess notices, and in hurried movements she lets Tracey take his weight and hands him a pistol.

“I’ll clear the way ahead. Keep close.” She shoots a hard look at Tracey, one he doesn’t understand but has Tracey nodding.

“We’ll be right behind you.”

Rook clears his throat, feeling like he’s still playing catch up. “Wait. Pratt’s here somewhere - we can’t go without him.”

“Look, I get it. You want to help your friend,” Tracey says. “But we don’t have time to be searching this entire place for one guy.”

“You searched for me, didn’t you?” he points out. Because they’d come right for him, there within minutes of the attack starting, and-

And they have Adelaide waiting. They knew he was here, that he was injured, and they’ve got a helicopter waiting for him. Jess called the attack a distraction.

Oh.

They’re not just saving him as a side-benefit to their original mission - this _is_ the mission. They didn’t come here for Joseph or Jacob, or to try taking over the base. Instead they came to get Rook with the knowledge of what they’d be up against, willing to risk that danger for the chance of rescuing him. They didn’t just leave him here to get himself out.

Rook doesn’t know how to process that, how to deal with the confusing tangle of simmering warmth and cold, iron bands crushing his lungs. So he shoves those feelings away, compacts them down to something manageable and easier to ignore. Something he can breathe around.

“I told him to be ready,” he says when it looks like they’ll argue with him. “They let him walk around in here, he won’t be locked up like me. We’ve just gotta find him.”

That’s if he’s still here. A lot can happen in a day, and while Rook doesn’t want to risk Jess and Tracey’s lives, he made a promise. He’s never had much use for morals, but he’s always kept his word. Always tried his hardest to.

(”Hey, it’s alright, it’s gonna be alright. Look at me. I promise, I promise you’ll be okay. You just need to keep breathing with me, okay? Just like that. I’ll get you out, I promise. Just keep breathing.”)

He squeezes his eyes against flashes of wet heat under his palms and choked, ragged breaths. Blinks hard, comes back to the cool metal of the gun and the material of Tracey’s jacket. Back to a long grey hallway with two corpses behind him and gunfire ringing in his ears.

“I’m not leaving without him,” he insists when the silence stretches too long. Not long at all? It’s difficult to tell through the hazy tint to his thoughts. He’s trying to push it down, push past it, and he _can_ but he doesn’t know how long he can keep this up.

“Rook-”

“Where’s he likely to be?” Jess’ mouth is in a tight line, a live wire of tension running through every inch of her.

It takes a moment to realise she’s agreeing. He shoots her a tired, grateful smile and tries to look more certain than he feels. “No way to know for sure. But if you lend me a radio, I’ll contact him. Get his position.”

“And let every peggie out there know we’re here,” Tracey says incredulously. “You’re trying real hard to fuck up your own rescue.”

“They’ll have guessed anyway.” Jacob isn’t an idiot. He’ll know the Resistance would send people after Rook while attacking the place, will figure out that it’s a distraction. “If you’d prefer you can do it instead, but-” The corner of his mouth pulls down. “-he might think it’s a test. Might not respond.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Jess grits out even as she stalks over to him and shoves a radio at him. He tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans and takes it, a nod from Jess getting the two of them moving forward again.

Rook turns the radio to an open frequency, and takes a deep breath. Fuck, here’s to hoping this works. “Deputy Pratt. S’about time we get the hell out of here. You in?”

He keeps to the same channel, but can make a guess that this will kick off some chatter on the cultist frequencies. Limping along like this and waiting for a response has them all tense. Rook keeps his eyes ahead, ready to drop the radio at a moment’s notice, and steps around the corpses they come across. More cultists, several with puncture marks from Jess’ arrows.

He’s starting to give up hope that Pratt will answer - and wondering how on earth he’s going to find him in this mess - when a response finally comes. _“Took you long enough.”_ The low, wavering tone doesn’t match his words, but damn if it isn’t good to hear from him.

They pass a window, giving Rook a glimpse of lines of cages a floor below them and the very edge of a broken wall. “How soon can you get to the eastern stairs?”

“Fuck,” Tracey snarls, because he’s given the cultists the location they’re heading for.

But she doesn’t tear the radio away from him, doesn’t drop his ass and focus on her own survival, because she also knows in a situation like this he hasn’t got much of a choice. Cultists will be converging on their position no matter what, depending on how long the distraction holds. They’ve just got to be quick about this.

_“I’m not far from there.”_ Rook picks up on the breathless edge to Pratt’s voice. _“You’ll wait?”_

“Don’t worry, Pratt. We aren’t going anywhere without you.” With that last bit of reassurance - one that shouldn’t reassure anyone, not when Rook is hanging on by a thread and can’t even walk on his own - he clips the radio to his jeans and grabs his gun.

They keep quiet as they move along, the pace slow more due to Rook than an attempt at stealth. Rook listens out for gunfire getting close to their position, but by now he’s pinpointed most of it to the front of the building where the main gates were. They’re moving towards the east wall, the one he put a hole in. Hopefully the cultist’s forces will be least concentrated over here. Especially if the Resistance use this opportunity to free their people in the cages.

It’s almost a relief to have three cultists turn the corner ahead of them, breaking the anticipation.

They see each other at the same time, and Rook’s knees jar against the floor as they duck down under a spray of gunfire. Tracey shoves him through an open doorway, leaning around the corner to shoot back at them. And Rook-

The bitter feeling of uselessness drowns him. It takes all the energy he has just to push himself onto shaking legs, and his hands tremble as they hold the pistol. He breathes in, tries to steady himself, and _hates_ the dry catch in his throat, hates the numbness in his fingers and the flare of pain in his ribs. Hates being reduced to this.

And in a gap in the cultist’s firing, he shifts around Tracey - one cultist on the ground, one half in a doorway and the other crouched low behind an overturned table - and puts a bullet in a Chosen’s head.

The next one only clips a woman’s shoulder, but it gives Jess the chance to put an arrow through her throat.

They don’t waste any time in getting moving again, though Tracey spares a moment to let him know just how pissed she’ll be if he gets himself killed when they went through so much effort getting him out. Rook doesn’t have an answer to that, mostly because he’s still carefully not thinking about the risk they’re taking for him. About why they’re doing it, why they’d bother, if he’s really worth the danger when balanced against what he can contribute in fighting the Seeds-

He bites through his lip, the taste of blood sickeningly familiar but a good distraction. Gives him the focus he needs to shift his attention to shit that actually matters.

The hallway opens up, more corpses making him assume this is the way Jess and Tracey came through. They walk with a wary familiarity, certain of where they’re going. He sure as hell doesn’t remember any of this, despite likely being moved down here yesterday.

The wooden floor creaks when they get to the stairs, earning a hissed curse from Tracey when it makes her jump. Rook exhales a soft, breathy laugh, and tries not to think too hard about how much getting down the stairs is going to suck.

Tracey isn’t a naturally encouraging person, but she gives it a shot when he’s shaking and ashen from the effort it takes to move one step at a time, knuckles white with his death grip on the bannister. Doing this is somehow way fucking worse than just walking, like his body has decided enough is enough. His limbs are numb, leaden weights and nausea curls hollow and cold in his stomach, and he keeps having to blink away the fireworks sparking across his vision.

Pushed himself too hard yesterday, and he’s paying for it now. His body is starting to shut down. He knows the signs, having gotten to this point more than once in the past. The best thing to do is rest, give himself chance to recover before he ends up in a worse state.

But he hasn’t got a choice here. He needs to get out, he’s _going_ to. Jess and Tracey would struggle to carry his dead weight, which means he needs to stay conscious. He needs to keep moving, one foot in front of the other. They’re at the landing now, he just needs to follow the corner around and keep going.

He’s so focused on that he almost doesn’t realise who Jess has got her bow aimed at.

“Stop!”

His hoarse yell stops Jess from shooting Pratt - Staci, he’s earned first-name terms by this point - where he stands at the bottom of the stairs, blood smeared on the corner of his mouth and a rifle in his hands. He isn’t in the deputy uniform right now, instead in some grey pants, red shirt and a camo jacket some Chosen favour. He gets why Jess didn’t recognise him off the bat.

“Fuck,” Rook breathes. “There a reason you’re wearing that?”

Something close to a smile crosses Staci’s face. Too brittle and sharp, but it’s close. “Bad time for laundry day?”

Rook snorts, and he feels Tracey’s shoulders loosen slightly as she breathes out, realising Staci isn’t an enemy. “Can we hurry up with leaving this shithole?” Tracey says. “Unless you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the best spot for a chat.”

“Right.” Staci’s expression firms, and there’s only a split second of hesitation when he winds an arm around Rook’s back to support his weight.

With an extra set of hands they’re moving a lot quicker. The gunfire is still ongoing, but it’s more sporadic, longer bursts of time in between explosions from grenades and frantic yelling. At least, Rook thinks so. His hearing is starting to cut out to a persistent, low-level ringing, smothering something that Jess is saying, and he only catches the odd word from Tracey’s reply. Not enough to make sense of it.

Doesn’t matter. One foot in front of the other. His focus narrows down, not all that different from yesterday. Except this time his head is filled with cotton wool and he’s stopped feeling all that much in terms of specifics, just a never-ending pain that surges through him with every step.

His breaths come in ragged pants, cold sweat dripping down his face. He thinks he sees the exit but at this point he’s fully relying on Staci and Tracey to get him going in the right direction. He thinks- he thinks that’s cool air against his face, thinks he hears someone yelling. Can’t know for sure when his bones are grinding to dust each time he puts his foot down, grains of sand catching in his muscles and tearing thousands of tiny rips into the tissue. Makes them weaker, making _him_ weaker.

He can’t afford to be weak. Can’t be useless. Can’t give in to the smothering need to slow down, to stop and sink into the black creeping into the corners of his vision. He can’t ever, ever stop.

(Stopping is death. Stopping is dirt filling his lungs and dying alone, unloved, no one to notice his absence. Stopping is laying in the sand and broken stone and not getting back that one last time, is bowing to men who would cheer at his failure. Stopping is freezing air scraping against his cheeks and clawing under his skin, is falling behind and letting it all end here, knowing he’s been abandoned.)

There’s pressure on his back, shifting a little of the weight off his legs, and a low, quiet voice that talks him through stepping higher to get over rubble, keeps talking when he stumbles and falls into the warm body on his left. He doesn’t know how he gets himself upright again, only knows that in some mercifully blank space in between they move from climbing over brick to branches and leaves crunching under his boots.

A woman’s voice, vaguely familiar and concerned. Hands on him, making him flinch but there’s enough left in him to know they aren’t enemies. He doesn’t need to fight them.

Metal and rotors and a building whirring sound, and he’s sitting down now, he’s restrained but he’s _away_ and-

He’s so tired.

* * *

Rook is sick of waking up in unfamiliar places.

It takes time for his vision to adjust. He isn’t tied up this time, and he’s covered by a thin quilt with an actual pillow under his head. He registers with resignation that he’s still in pain, though it’s dull enough to have him suspecting heavy painkillers. The slow, thick crawl of his thoughts supports that idea.

He tips his head back, opening his eyes fully, and realises the room isn’t unfamiliar. Not entirely. He’s been in the jail’s infirmary a few times before, occasionally for treatment and more often just passing through to speak with someone. He’s never been so injured that he needs to stay here.

Guess that changed.

He blinks, slow and heavy. Finally picks up on the fact that there are people moving around. Lots of them. Short, sharp sentences and blood-stained clothes, wounded in the beds on either side of him as people rush back and forth. They blur before his eyes, smudged to nothing more than colours.

He closes his eyes against it, the black of the inside of his eyelids oddly comforting.

When he opens his eyes, Grace is sitting beside his bed. There’s a faint pressure on his arm - her hand, and her face is tense, drawn in harsh lines despite how soft her eyes are.

They widen slightly when she sees him looking back. “Rook,” she says quietly, then pauses. Like she doesn’t know what comes next. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes a while for him to parse through her words. To come up with an answer when he’s just…utterly spent. Part of him doesn’t want to answer, just wants to close his eyes again and go back to sleep. But he owes her a response. He owes Grace, even if he isn’t thinking about _why_ right now.

“Tired.” The word is nothing more than a hoarse whisper, mouth dry and agony lancing through his chest when he exhales. When he inhales, too, like the pain is playing catch up now he’s aware of it.

There’s something wry in her small smile. “Suppose that’s good. Might mean you’ll actually get some proper rest this time.”

He hums a faint agreement. Watches her, and tries to understand. “Why?” He can’t find the words to form a whole sentence. Hopes she gets it from that alone.

She does.

Her eyes go weary and sad, and the grip on his arm tightens. “Do you remember what I said? The day you went to meet Joseph Seed? I told you that if you got taken, I wouldn’t be waiting on the sidelines for you to get back.” She gives a grim smile. “I failed last time Jacob Seed got his hands on you. Didn’t step up like I should’ve. Not this time.”

“I-” Rook swallows hard, gaze darting to the ceiling where he doesn’t have to see the confusing twist of emotions on Grace’s face. Doesn’t know what his own face is showing, because he just feels so fucking _lost._

He doesn’t understand this, _can’t._ It never goes this way, not for him. Only with Denise, and that’s- that’s different. That’s _Denise._

And Grace- his last memory of her is exhausted anger as she walked away from him. Is her criticising his methods (his death wish) and treating him like a rabid dog. Like she’d never seen him before that moment, and now that she’d realised what he was she didn’t want anything to do with him.

(He hadn’t expected to care. Didn’t realise it would hurt. It wasn’t supposed to hurt.)

The words tangle in his mouth. _You left_ and _why did you bother_ and _find someone else to care about._ Cruel, vile words, ones designed to carve out the delicate connection and force Grace to realise he’s a lost cause, always has been, and she’s better off wasting her loyalty on literally anyone else. He isn’t worth the effort.

(“You’re a real idiot sometimes, y’know that? Get over here, bitch. If I ever hear you say shit like that again I’ll kick your ass so hard your grandkids will feel it.”)

It all drains away from him in the next exhale.

“Thanks,” he says instead. Means it, even if he can’t bring himself to inject any emotion into his voice. Can’t do much of anything at all.


	24. Chapter 24

Rook doesn’t stay in the infirmary for long. Once Dr Lindsey gives him a checkup - uncertain and out of his depth, blood dried on his sleeves and dark circles under his eyes - that confirms two fractured ribs and the various fun aftereffects of borderline starvation, dehydration, and pushing his body to the point where it’s struggling to recover, Rook gets moved over to a prison cell.

Someone’s tried their best to make it look a little less like a cell, with patterned fabric hung over the open door, a thin rug, and several colourful cushions on the bed. A thread of unease still runs through him when he’s helped in by Grace and a Resistance member who keeps darting nervous glances his way. Easier to ignore than normal, mostly because the short walk expends every bit of energy he has and leaves his brain feeling like sludge.

He collapses on the bed, leaning into the wall so he actually stays upright rather than slumping over onto his back. His eyes close as he catches his breath. Grace thanks the Resistance member, and Rook listens to the man’s retreating footsteps. Wishes Grace would leave too, because repressing his emotions is kind of hard when one of the triggers is close by.

To put it generously, Rook is feeling a bit frayed.

He’s been at the jail for four days, not anywhere near long enough to begin processing all the shit that happened. His head is clearer now than it was, no longer threatening to suffocate him at any moment. But his edges feel- shaky, jagged shards failing to fit back together like they’re supposed to, leaving him hovering at the border of a panic attack every second he’s awake.

Fun.

And shit, he gets that he needs to let everything go, let himself feel all the crap muddled up inside him. But he needs to feel safe enough to do so, and that’s fucking impossible lately. Not when he’s like this, so weak he can’t even walk on his own.

Logically, he understands the jail is well-defended. They’ve stepped things up since he first arrived to a siege on the verge of breaking, ensuring that a similar situation shouldn’t occur again. A good dozen of their people are injured (because of him, because they took that risk when they shouldn’t have, why the _hell_ did they-) but they’ve recalled members who’d been watching over former outposts to fill in the gaps in their forces.

Yet he just can’t relax. Can’t let go of the cold, restrictive band around his chest that gets tighter with every day that passes, until he can barely breathe - and even then he can’t let go, can’t finally give in. Every inch of him is urging him to fight, to stay aware of every last thing going on around him, to get up and move and destroy anything that could ever hurt him, that can even come _close-_

Rook takes a deep, shuddering breath. Holds it in, counts the seconds in his head. Exhales.

The bed creaks when Grace sits down beside him. She doesn’t ask if he’s okay. Knows better than that, and wouldn’t appreciate the question if their positions were reversed. She doesn’t know him, not really, but she knows enough. Cares enough, as fucked up as that is.

“Why attack the Veterans Center?” she eventually settles on. A decent distraction, at least.

“I was making a point, I guess.” He’ll be honest with Grace. She’s earned that. “Knew he’d get me eventually, and I’m sick of them thinking they have all the power. Wanted to take it away from them, and have some fun doing it. Get ahead of the game for once.”

“And delivered yourself to him in the process.”

He shrugs loosely and gives a breathy chuckle. “Yeah. Killed a lot of peggies, if that helps.”

Killed more than the Resistance lost. He doesn’t add that fact, not quite psychopathic enough to be unaware that someone like Grace wouldn’t consider it a fair exchange. Being a soldier doesn’t mean she’s like him. Thinking of people in terms of abstracts, with only a few gaining his attention long enough to carve themselves a place inside him. To become real.

Grace doesn’t scold him for throwing his life away this time, at least. Just sighs quietly. “Are you gonna pull something like that again?”

He hesitates. “No. Probably not, since it won’t have the same impact.”

He can’t promise not to take risks, but he won’t go into a situation like that with the expectation of being caught again. Whatever other confrontations he has with the Seeds, he wants it to be on equal ground where possible. Might not always be, consider their love of kidnapping, but he can try.

“Guess that’ll have to be good enough,” she says wearily.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Rook can’t bring himself to tell her to leave. Allows himself to appreciate the quiet support, and wishes he was capable of being the person she thinks he is. Someone who deserves her steady presence, who looks at the world the same way she does. Sees good people and wants to help, rather than viewing it all like a game. A passing piece of entertainment.

He wishes he was _more,_ sometimes. That he hadn’t lost whatever part of him makes it so easy for people to connect, to feel real. He’s accepted this is how he is, but he still thinks about it on occasion.

He’d probably be drowning in guilt, though, so maybe it’s best that he’s like this.

* * *

Rook is better this time around, compared to the last time Jacob had him. He went into it with a good idea of what he’d be subjecting himself to, and sure, doesn’t mean he came out a-okay - but he isn’t a complete mess.

(Isn’t too broken to reign in the panic attacks that build in his chest, sharp and overwhelming and closing tight around his lungs. Isn’t too far gone that he can’t pull his lips into a smile and pretend he’s fine, like it doesn’t take all his focus not to flinch when someone gets close, not to reach for the comforting weight of a knife and gut them.)

It’s mostly his body that’s fucked up.

Being this weak is…well, he isn’t having a fun time of it. So he does his best to get back on track. Eats to his limit, slowly packs back on the weight he’d lost once his body realises it isn’t on the verge of starving. At first his food is brought to him by Grace until he insists people outside the jail need her, letting the guilt and sense of duty and desire to put peggies in the ground do the rest of the work for him. Then he eats in the canteen with the eyes of almost everyone in there on him, which always does a great job of ramping up his hyper-awareness of everything around him.

He does the exercises he knows from experience are good for building up strength, and forces himself to stop when his vision starts wavering and he can’t drag enough air into his lungs. It’s tempting to keep pushing himself, to go as far as he’s able and keep testing how much further he can go, but that’ll just set him back. The last thing he needs is to be stuck in the jail for even longer.

It’s pretty clear from just a couple days here that the members of the Resistance aren’t quite sure how to act around him. He’s not a local like they are, didn’t grow up with them or their kids and have years to become familiar, even if only in passing. Hell, he’s more of an outsider than the cultists are. The Seeds at least have been in Hope County for years, and Faith was born here.

And Rook doesn’t give a shit about fitting in anymore. He doesn’t act the part of Michael Rook, and only makes himself less overtly threatening in the most basic of ways, rather than building an identity around it. So he’s a lot more _Rook_ than he usually is with strangers, and the smart ones know to be wary of someone like him.

But they don’t forget what he’s done for them, either. Don’t forget that until he showed up they were on the path to being tortured, drugged to the gills or brainwashed - if they weren’t outright killed. They owe Rook, and everyone who fought at Jacob’s base seems to think of it as repaying him, as doing their part for the Resistance.

(He asks why they did it. Carefully, hides his confusion behind gratitude that isn’t entirely fake, just shallow in its lack of comprehension. Feels better about considering it a debt repaid, even as he admits to himself that the same doesn’t apply to the people he’d tentatively label friends.

The ones who came for him despite knowing he’s capable of saving himself. Jess, who hovers around the jail even when it’s obvious she hates being cooped in like this, and doesn’t leave until Rook convinces her he won’t put himself in danger anytime soon. Tracey, who sits with him in the canteen and gets him the weaponry he asks for without a word. Visits in person and calls over the radio from Adelaide and Sharky and Hurk and Nick and Kim and Mary May and-

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.)

The Resistance members don’t push for more, don’t urge him out the door the second he’s walking without falling over himself. Instead, after the first week he gets people approaching him. Some have questions about shit he did - “Did that really happen?” with incredulous smirks and eyes that go wide when he confirms it - or his encounters with the Seeds, others about his various skills, which often trail into long conversations about the merits of different weaponry and tactics.

It helps draw him out of lingering too long on bad memories - _red rooms and endless corridors and blood in his mouth and he can’t get clean, can’t wash it all of it’s still on him it’s under his nails get it off_ \- and Rook’s always been a social guy. He likes talking to people. Finds it interesting to learn more about them, to figure out the things that drive them and what they care about.

And even when Rook isn’t pushing for it, people tend to like him. He’s been told that he’s easy to get along with when he isn’t being an absolute bastard for the hell of it (Denise’s words). It’s a good distraction, actually talking to the people he’s defending. Learning names and faces.

He hears about how Clara used to run the grocery store and left behind a photo of her daughters tucked behind the counter, in too much of a rush to grab it, and she can’t stop thinking about some cultist seeing it and going after her kids even when they’re in the relative safety of the jail. Talks to an old veteran who swaps tips on maintaining equipment out in the field, and hates that he didn’t see this coming, that he heard the cultists spouting Joseph’s words and didn’t think anything would come of it until it was too late. Shows a few kids how to build a house of cards, lifting a tiny girl named Sophie up so she can put the final one on the top, and cheering with the rest of them when the cards wobble but don’t fall.

It’s-

It’s something. Makes him feel a little more solid. As if as long as he’s got someone looking at him - even if they don’t see him, don’t _know_ him - his edges won’t blur as much.

Boomer, Peaches and Cheeseburger help with that, too. Hurk brings them down and as soon as Rook’s done getting swarmed by the three overly affectionate animals, he’s put through what passes for a scolding from someone like Hurk. Which mostly consists of Hurk demanding to know why he wasn’t brought along too, and a hug that Rook doesn’t stand a chance of escaping until Cheeseburger nearly bowls them both over.

Surprisingly, he’s allowed to bring all three into the jail, though Cheeseburger is relegated to the courtyard since he’s too big for the jail’s corridors and doorways. The fact that they’re all local celebrities in their own ways helps with calming down anyone who thinks having a bear and a cougar as pets is insane, and Rook makes a good case for boosted morale when Whitehorse asks if they really need to stay at the jail with him. Helped along by the fact that Whitehorse has a definite soft spot for Peaches, judging by the tins of tuna he keeps feeding her when he thinks no one is paying attention.

Rook is just grateful to have them there when the nightmares start up. No longer so exhausted he doesn’t dream, he gets to enjoy a highlights reel of trauma every time he sleeps. He doesn’t wake up screaming or anything - taught himself not to a long time ago - which is good considering the jail cell isn’t exactly private, but he isn’t unaffected. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to come down from his terror when Boomer and Peaches are competing to see who can smother him first, their warm bodies convincing his racing heartbeat to gradually slow until he stops shaking.

(Stops digging nails into his skin, desperate to erase a touch belonging to someone long dead. Stops gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches, trapping any sound trying to escape as he hunches over and makes himself smaller, less of a target.)

Some nights there’s nothing he can do to get back to sleep, even with Boomer and Peaches there on the too-small bed. Those nights, he joins the people on guard duty, bringing along hot drinks and taking over when someone looks like they’re about to drop asleep.

Other times he ends up in Virgil’s office, manning the radios for the night. The first time it happened because Virgil caught him wandering around aimlessly and called him over, astute enough to figure out that Rook needed something to do. Rook didn’t expect to get led over to the radio system Virgil has set up in his office, but he listened to the simple instructions - listen out for anyone in trouble, direct patrols to them if it’s in the Henbane, make a note of reports from people monitoring the cult - and waved an exhausted Virgil off with the assurance he could handle it.

It takes a bit of getting used to, and more than one Resistance member get a bit tongue-tied when they realise who they’re talking to, but it keeps him occupied. It’s even fun in some ways, challenging his attention span to keep up with different calls and deciphering the codes as he goes.

Through it, he talks with Mary May and Dutch and Eli on occasion, sharing information and sticking to topics that don’t make Rook want to throw himself at the nearest outpost. For a guy who secluded himself to an island, Dutch always has plenty to say in the quiet lulls of the night when not much is going on. The company is good, distracting. Gives him a chance to get a better idea of what the Resistance do while he’s off burning a path through the cultists, and become familiar with a few of people out defending the ground they’ve gained.

On nights when he can’t stand to be around people, doesn’t think he can be around anyone without hurting them, he heads for the roof.

There isn’t usually anyone on watch at the very top of the jail, leaving the open space all to Rook. The only place he can get away from the dozens of people around him, their presence a constant prickle at the edges of his mind. An awareness that never goes away, that he just can’t switch off no matter how much it fucks with his head.

It’s the only place he can let his guard down, at least a little. If a helicopter came by he’d hear it, and the position of the jail would make it difficult for any sniper to aim at him when he’s flat on his back, an air conditioning unit blocking off the curve of the hill at the back of the jail.

Rook can just lay there, arms pillowing his head (ribs protesting at the placement but the pain isn’t so bad, helps keep him centred in the here and now) and eyes on the sky without worrying about being disturbed. He’s always liked that being out in Big Sky Montana means you can get such a good view of the stars. Feels like the whole Milky Way is on display, too many stars for him to ever count sprawled across a night sky turned purple and blue and orange. Beautiful.

He picks out the constellations he’s familiar with, a bittersweet smile forming as he recalls the feeling of a hand in his and a warm, confident voice he could listen to for hours. The city didn’t have the best views, so they’d driven for hours just to find a decent spot, the summer heat making the ride near unbearable. The picnic he’d packed had gone to shit by the time they were there, leaving Rook to make a hasty trip to a gas station for some snacks. It was all worth it for the chance to see smoky grey eyes go wide and that awed, slightly crooked smile.

It’s a good memory. He doesn’t have a lot of those, so he holds onto the few he does have. Keeps them close and buries them deep, because even if he’s been babbling about the shit that’s happened to him over the years, he can keep the good memories safe.

No one’s ever interested in those.

* * *

One night, Rook runs into Staci. He’s on a coffee run, putting his brief stint in waitering to the test and trying not to spill hot liquid all over himself. Good thing his startle reflex has always been to go still, so the drinks don’t get an unceremonious introduction to the ground.

The way Staci stares at him makes it clear this meeting isn’t intentional. He looks better than he did last Rook saw him. Bruises starting to yellow, the gash on his nose scabbing over. Still got those dark bags under his eyes and a worn tenseness to his frame, body language caught between making himself look bigger or tucking down into something easy to ignore.

He looks at Rook like a threat first, checking him over for weapons and lingering on his occupied hands, until - tentatively - Staci offers a small, thin smile.

“Hey, Rook.” He clears his throat, voice rough and still at a lower register than it was before the helicopter crash. Like he’s screamed enough that it’s ruined his vocal cords. “Need a hand with that?”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Rook doesn’t point out that he’s pretty sure Staci’s been avoiding him for the past couple weeks, just hands over some of the drinks and carries on walking.

Someone’s gotten Staci a change of clothes. They’re too loose on him, emphasising the weight he’s lost, and good cover for any weapons he might want to stash away. There’s nothing visible, anyway. The Cougars probably don’t trust Staci with a gun, not when he’s been under Jacob’s thumb so long. Bet that was a fun conversation to have.

No one’s asked Rook to go unarmed. Must know better than to make the attempt. Or maybe they don’t think Jacob’s conditioning has got to him. Rook would love to have the same confidence, but truth is, he hasn’t got a clue.

Maybe Staci will know something about that.

“So. The rescue went a bit differently than I’d planned,” he starts, casting a wry smile over at Staci and slowing his pace to come level with where Staci’s retreated a half-step behind. “Didn’t expect the cavalry to come riding in like that. Makes everything I said to you seem a bit silly in hindsight, huh?”

“Not really.” Staci’s shoulders hunch up a bit, his gaze darting between Rook and the hallway ahead. Always keeping a lookout, like he expects an attack at any moment. Probably accurate; Rook can’t imagine the cultists being all that friendly to one of the people who tried taking away their precious Father. “They came for you. Would’ve left me there if you hadn’t made them wait.”

Rook’s smile fades. Not much he can say to that.

Staci sure got dealt a shitty hand. To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t important enough for people to risk lives to save him (and Rook shouldn’t be either, debt or no debt, why did they-). Whitehorse might’ve made an attempt if he didn’t have his own people to look after now, his focus firmly on defending the ground he’s gained in the Henbane. Up north no one really knows Staci personally, and the only ones with a chance of rescuing him are still struggling to gain a foothold in the region.

“Doesn’t matter now.” Staci loosens off his posture and lifts his chin as he meets Rook’s gaze. “I’m out. I survived. And I’m gonna make Jacob Seed regret keeping me alive.”

That makes Rook grin, surprised but approving. He revises his earlier assessment of Staci being broken; it looks like Staci’s got some fight in him yet.

“Sorry, I’ve already called dibs.” He huffs in annoyance. “Can’t believe I fucked up killing him. So damn close, too.” Just a few inches to the side and he would’ve caught Jacob’s carotid artery. Much as he wants to keep drawing this out, he doesn’t like missing, either.

And yeah, okay, maybe he’s decided that Jacob’s just as interesting as his brothers. Maybe he wants to see how this will play out, how Jacob will retaliate and what else he has to offer. Because Jacob is a threat, overt and labelled as one since the first time Rook saw him, but he sure didn’t see this conditioning shit coming. Didn’t anticipate how much it would affect him, how it would turn his head into a tangled, red-tinted mess and come so fucking close to pushing him over the edge.

The same edge he spends every day chasing after, because as shitty as he feels, he also feels _alive._

“I saw,” Staci says, a grimly satisfied glint his eyes. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him so pissed off.”

Rook snickers. “I bet. Totally ruined that army jacket of his with all the blood, at least. But I guess the peggies are experts at cleaning blood out of clothes.”

Rook usually doesn’t bother, just buys himself new clothes. No point keeping potential evidence around, and he has the money to burn. Lately, though? Hell if he doesn’t make an attempt to keep anything that fits him in good condition. The clothes he’s got on now only fit because of the weight he’s lost.

Staci goes back to being tense and quiet when they reach the outer wall of the jail. Most of the guards are too tired to do more than accept the drinks gratefully, coffees for anyone who needs the caffeine boost and tea for the few night owls. Rook doesn’t linger for as long as he normally would, aware of Staci’s increasing discomfort whenever people notice him and try drawing him into conversation.

Guess he isn’t handling the adjustment so well. Rook can’t really blame him. There isn’t time to relax properly, not in Hope County, so Staci’s stuck in the unsettling limbo of only being partially away from the danger that’s surrounded him for weeks, constantly aware of how easily things could go wrong in a split second. Not the best atmosphere for recovering from trauma.

The courtyard offers a quiet spot, less claustrophobic but with high walls on either side giving a decent illusion of safety. Cheeseburger is sound asleep when they get there, curled up at the base of a basketball hoop and not even twitching when they pass by.

Staci just follows along until Rook turns to face him. He goes tense then, squaring up only to duck his head a second later, jaw clenched tight.

So Rook doesn’t make a move to close the distance. Instead, he shifts so he isn’t facing Staci directly and leans back against the wall, hands loose at his sides and in clear view. Little things to unbalance himself, give Staci more time to react if Rook went to attack him. Staci won’t ever think he isn’t a threat, but he can do this much.

He waits for Staci to speak first. Gives him a little control over the situation.

“You know what he was trying to do, don’t you?”

No need to ask what - or who - Staci’s talking about.

“Yeah, he wasn’t exactly hiding it.” He looks up, mildly disappointed that the cloud cover makes for a dull sky. “Drugs to make me suggestible, pair it up with aggression and then link all that to a trigger. Creates a mindset where I’ll kill anything in my path, and as a bonus I’ll do what he tells me, right? Give me some direction. Rinse and repeat until all I’ll need is the song to get like that. A song and an order to follow.”

Directionless rage has a use, but it’d be a waste of what Rook has to offer. The drugs weren’t just for making him susceptible to the conditioning, they were part of the mindset Jacob wanted to create. One where Rook wouldn’t just attack blindly, he’d hear an order - Jacob’s order, why else have the recordings of his speeches in the first sessions, and the condescending praise Rook doesn’t think he imagined entirely - and turn all that focus he’s used for fighting the Seeds in another direction.

“Who would it be first?” Rook asks lightly. “My bet’s on Eli.”

Probably the biggest threat out there in Jacob’s eyes, though Rook might’ve surpassed him at this point. Last time Rook stopped by the Wolf’s Den Eli revealed he helped construct the bunkers. Quite the loose end to leave hanging, made all the better by Eli being in a good position to use that knowledge once the Whitetail Militia gets a solid foothold. Last Rook heard they’ve taken back an outpost all on their own, though they’ve mostly focused on destroying cult equipment and supplies rather than outright assaults. Makes sense considering their smaller numbers.

“He had it all planned out,” Staci confirms, hands flexing in sharp, unconscious movements. “Eli first, and the Wolf’s Den. You’d lead him straight to it, and then- then he wants the valley. Fall’s End and Mary May and Pastor Jerome. Get supplies flowing again.”

“Then the jail?” The last major stronghold.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Rook’s lips curve into a harsh smile. “He has a lotta faith in me, doesn’t he? And this conditioning of his. Seems to me like there’d be a real danger of me snapping out of it and- well. Being a bit angry over killing my allies.”

Joseph wanted him at a point where he’d willingly give up fighting them. If all his allies were dead, the Resistance turned against him - yeah. That’s one way to reach that point.

Staci shakes his head. “There ain’t a way to break out of it. Once you’re his, that’s it. You cull the herd, the _weak.”_

“And Jacob decides who the weak are, right?” Rook hums thoughtfully, thumb tapping against the radio clipped to his belt. This is one weakness he can’t afford to let linger. “How ‘bout we put this conditioning to the test.”

* * *

The next few days are educational.

For example, Rook learns he can last until the fourth line of _Only You_ before the world gains a red tint and he starts getting twitchy. Five more lines and things start getting hazy. Two more and he rapidly spirals into something between a panic attack and a fight or flight response. Mostly fight, but he thinks that’s at least partially just because of how Rook is.

Apparently all that is a good sign; according to Staci his ‘trials’ aren’t done yet, which is why he isn’t all the way gone. Really, _really_ wanting to murder people isn’t too far from his default anyway, and Rook’s had decades to practice controlling his worst impulses.

This isn’t _quite_ the same. For one thing, his control goes to shit and it takes everything he has just to wrangle it back again. But once he’s got a handle on how he’s been impacted by being fucking brainwashed (seriously, what is his life), he takes the dive and locks himself up for three days in his bunker with The Platters blaring nonstop in his ears.

Staci told him that over time he built a bit of a resistance to it, and most of Jacob’s people do as well - otherwise they’d lose their shit too easily to be effective, making it best used for sleeper agents and converting Resistance members. Smaller doses, otherwise it’ll lose its effectiveness once those associations start to weaken, and a focus on indoctrination while the mind’s in a vulnerable state.

And this? This is exposure therapy at its finest.

Leaves him a frazzled, brittle mess at the end, and he twitches every time he hears the song, but his brain’s apparently decided the red haze can fuck right off so- result?

* * *

Rook’s been making a deliberate effort to avoid the Seeds. No phone, no radio apart from specific calls, and this most recent excursion to the bunker is the only time he’s ventured outside the jail. Part of it was at Grace’s insistence, but the rest was Rook admitting that he needed the breather. Needed to take a minute to piece himself back together so he isn’t so mired down in Hope County’s brand of crazy.

It helps. He feels a hell of a lot lighter than he has in a while, able to look back at all the shit he’s revealed to the Seeds and just- accept it. They know it now and it’s too late to take it back. The best thing to do is make sure it can’t be used against him - he won’t let it be.

So when he gets his hands on his phone again, after making the change into clothes that fit him and offer some decent protection, Rook just raises an eyebrow at the number of missed calls. Most are concentrated towards the last week or so, though the ones from John are more sporadic, starting a couple days after Rook attacked the Veterans Center.

Huh. Guess no one told him what was going on, or else he wouldn’t have bothered calling. A point in John’s favour.

The rest are calls from Joseph, Faith, and one - surprisingly enough - from Jacob. No voicemails or texts. Avoiding leaving solid evidence, or a case of having too much to say to really fit in a text? Could just be that none of them liked the idea of him ignoring them, and leaving texts or voicemails would cross the boundary from pushy into desperate. If, y’know, that’s a thing any of them care about. Sure doesn’t seem like it.

Makes him wonder what the radio broadcasts have been like lately. He’s betting on at least a few directed his way. Must’ve frustrated them when they got no response.

It’d be kind of funny if Rook up and disappeared at this point. Built up all this tension just to fuck off into the sunset with no one the wiser as to where he went. Too bad he’s committed to seeing this through to the end, otherwise that’d be real tempting.

He checks his guns before sliding them into their holsters, smiling a little when he puts his gloves on. He’s- well, he’s on the mend. As recovered as he’s going to get when he isn’t willing to sit around the jail any longer. His ribs still ache but that’s what chugging painkillers is for, and the muscle atrophy won’t get any better unless he’s active. So he might as well get back out there and do some good rather than waiting any longer.

Only thing left is deciding how he’s going to make his re-entry into the game.

Rook’s got an idea or two for that.

* * *

There is, however, an interruption.

“Hurry the fuck up!” Kim screams from the backseat, letting out a ragged, pained noise when another contraction hits.

“I’m trying!”

The truck swerves around the corner, two wheels lifting off the ground for a second that has Nick swearing loudly. Rook’s trying not to drive as recklessly as he normally does alone, he is, but if they’re gonna get to the clinic fast then certain sacrifices have got to be made in terms of safe driving.

They’re pushing a hundred when they fly through a farm, smashing past wooden fencing and narrowly avoiding a cow. And that’s a couple of cultists up ahead and they scatter when they notice the truck, don’t even have time to get their guns up before Rook’s yanked the wheel hard and pulling the handbrake to throw them down a side road at Nick’s direction.

Burning oil tankers, hale bales, a ramp, a crashing plane and a herd of deer later, the truck slides to a halt outside the clinic.

After getting Kim inside to the midwife, already up and waiting for them, Rook hesitates in the waiting room. Nick’s in with Kim, still holding her hand and probably getting a few bones fractured in the process. Now that he’s gotten them here, Rook’s left uncertain what to do - especially when every scream has him tensing up and reaching for a gun.

“Not a problem you can shoot,” he mutters to himself, heading outside. Perimeter sweep, he can do that. Check the area for any hostiles, take them out, make sure things are safe while Kim is vulnerable and Nick distracted. Gives him something to keep his mind occupied, at least.

Fortunately (unfortunately), the area around the clinic is peaceful. No gunfire or yelling, no Chosen flying low in the skies, no patrols. The radio has one of John’s pre-recorded broadcasts playing, about the fast-approaching Collapse and how it’ll wipe all evil from the world, but no chatter from cultists nearby.

Rook ends up on the roof over the next few hours, rifle in hand as he keeps watch. He can still hear Kim’s screams from up here, which keeps him tense and uneasy the entire time. He’s never been around someone giving birth, but he knows enough to get that screaming is- normal. Nothing to worry about.

The knowledge doesn’t help _at all,_ but hey, at least he isn’t adding to Kim’s stress by charging in there with a gun. That’s the last thing she needs.

He’s still on the roof when Nick calls for him. The tired bemusement in Nick’s face when Rook drops down next to him has Rook giving a sheepish grin, hastily putting the assault rifle aside before following Nick into the clinic.

Kim looks completely exhausted, laying back on the bed with hair sticking to her flushed, sweaty skin. She’s also smiling wider than Rook’s ever seen her, holding a pink bundle in her arms.

“Get over here,” she says when she spots him lingering awkwardly in the doorway, and Rook quickly obliges. There’s a couple of chairs near the bed and Rook takes one, Nick moving around the other side to lean on the bed and put an arm around Kim’s shoulders.

“Rook, I’d like to introduce you to your goddaughter.”

Rook blinks at Kim, certain he misheard her. Then he looks to Nick because come on, there’s no way they’d name _Rook_ godfather. There are a thousand better choices in Hope County alone, and the Ryes have got to have friends and family who’d be far more suited than him.

“Her name’s Carmina,” Nick says quietly, an awestruck smile spreading across his face as he looks down at his daughter. “Ain’t she beautiful?”

“I-” Rook clears his throat, and looks down at the baby in Kim’s arms. Carmina (they named her after Nick’s plane. He’ll have to tease them for it when he’s less distracted). And fuck, she’s so _small._ She must be sleeping, eyes closed and peaceful, and she’s just this tiny, _alive_ bundle. “Yeah, she is.”

“I know we didn’t talk to you about it, but Rook?” He looks back up, meeting Kim’s warm brown eyes. “There’s no one else we’d rather have as her godfather.”

“I, uh. I’m honoured.” He scratches his cheek, hoping the warmth he feels there isn’t showing. Hoping he doesn’t look as confused and- and affected as he feels. “I’ll do my best?” It comes out as a question rather than the sure statement he wants it to be, and Rook winces.

“You wanna hold her?” Nick glances at Kim. “He can hold her, right?”

“You know how?” Kim asks.

“Um, yeah I do.” Rook shuffles the chair closer to the bed. “There- When I was a kid, I’d babysit for one of my neighbours. Two kids and a baby, and the mom showed me how to hold him.” A dollar an hour, and the chance to get out of his apartment for a while when Miss Maria was in the hospital. He was good at coming up with games for the kids to play, and though Amelia looked after the baby herself, he learnt how to change diapers and give the baby - little Jamie, with a gummy smile and tufts of brown hair - a bath under Amelia’s tired watch.

He still remembers how to do it, supporting Carmina’s head and neck and cradling her against his chest. He can barely feel the weight of her, and he goes still with the abrupt, fierce reminder of how defenceless she is.

“Relax.” Kim places a hand on his forearm, her eyes on Carmina. “She isn’t made of glass.”

“I know. I just-” don’t want to hurt her. Don’t want to be the kind of person who looks at a baby and can only think about how weak they are.

He’s okay with who he is, really. He’s had years to learn what he’s capable of and realise he isn’t ever going to be a good person. But sometimes it just…catches him off guard a bit. How _wrong_ he is. The distance between him and most people he meets.

Carmina sleeps on peacefully, unaware that she’s in the arms of a killer. Held by someone who lost count years ago of how many he’s killed without feeling a thing.

Rook swallows, and looks at Kim. Kim and Nick, who’ve only ever been kind to him. Who let him into their home, took care of him when he was at his weakest and never tried to use it against him. Who named him godfather to their daughter and let him hold her. They don’t realise, don’t _know,_ that they should keep Carmina far away from him.

“I’m not who you think I am.” He bites the corner of his lower lip, a nervous tell he’s tried his best to break himself from. Always comes back when he loses focus like this. “I’m-”

“You’re our friend,” Nick interrupts, a rare show of seriousness that has Rook faltering before he even starts. “Nothin’ else to it.”

Hand still on his arm, Kim’s squeezes slightly. “You’re family. When you want to talk, we’ll be there. But it won’t change anything, okay? It won’t change what you’ve done for us.” She lets go, smile softening as she gently strokes Carmina’s cheek. “And you better visit more often now you’ve got your goddaughter to look after.”

“I will,” he promises, looking down at Carmina’s sleeping face. When this is over, when the Seeds are dead and the game is finished…He’ll come back here. Stop by when he can, once the heat dies down. There’s too much tying him to Hope County to leave forever.

* * *

Before he makes his big entrance back into the shitshow, Rook uses the lack of heat to get the little things done.

Over the course of his time in Hope County, more than one person has asked him to bring back various items if he happens across them. He’s grabbed a few along the way when he spots them, but otherwise hasn’t put much effort into finding them. Seemed a waste of time, when he could be taking down outposts and killing cultists.

But now? Rook isn’t gonna lie to himself; he’s still not back in top form. Three weeks isn’t enough to get him in shape, not after being starved, injured, and having his head fucked with. He isn’t harmless, don’t get him wrong, but he tires out quicker and gaining all that muscle mass back is a slow process.

So yeah, he can make time to get Wheaty his vinyl records, and coded lighters for Wendell Redler, and even bobble-heard figurines of Cheeseburger for one unreasonably dedicated employee. And along the way he makes the effort to talk with the locals who’ve managed to survive this long without getting killed or caught by the cult.

It’s…well, he’s been real fucking dismissive of them, let’s be honest. They’ve been more of an abstract idea than actual people, and in his mind this game has always been about him and the Seeds, not the people who actually live in Hope County. And maybe that hasn’t changed, maybe Rook’s still focused on the end goal without much concern for anyone else, but he’s trying.

He sits down with people and listens to them talk about what the county was like before the cult showed up. Most locals have always lived here, going generations back. Rook can’t understand being so attached to a place but he can listen. He can make the effort to learn names and faces, to help out with supplies for the ones who’ve avoiding the worst of the conflict by keeping to themselves way out in the woods.

And he can promise them, with a certainty no one else seems to share, that this is gonna end.

* * *

Throughout it, he’s alone apart from Boomer, Cheeseburger and Peaches.

Maybe not the most stealthy way to get around when being followed by a bear and a cougar, but they know when to keep quiet. He can almost forget they’re there until Cheeseburger will nose against his arm, or Peaches will brush past his leg and nearly trip him down the side of a cliff.

In the evenings, he doesn’t have to worry about the cooling temperature. Not when he’s got three heaters curled up around him. Some part of him is aware that he probably shouldn’t use a grizzly bear as a pillow, domesticated or not, but the rest of him is caught up in how nice it feels.

Boomer’s always happy to flop over his lap, tail wagging the moment Rook starts petting him. Peaches won’t always sleep by them, her more nocturnal nature showing when she prowls around the camp, eyes glinting in the dark. Rook thinks of it as her keeping watch, one hair-raising screech away from alerting them to an enemy. It’s oddly reassuring.

After a day of traipsing around the county, these quiet moments of peace settle the jagged shards of his mind like nothing else.

There isn’t the pressure of being around people. Even those he considers friends, there’s nearly always an awareness of their every movement and action, a sharp attention to the details that could give away a possible attack. Then there’s his own reactions, the need to control every slight shift in body language.

It’s why he hates the Bliss so much, past history aside. It takes away his control. The slow, easy contentment of it…It’s tempting, and he gets why so many people succumb to it. Being allowed to just be happy, to let go of your worries and exist in a state where nothing can hurt…Who wouldn’t want that?

He snorts. This whole thing has been a lesson in giving up control - or having it torn from him anyway. Would be real nice if that part was over.

He won't get his hopes up. 


	25. Chapter 25

The Pilgrimage starts on the east side of Angel’s Peak, looping through the Henbane before ending back up at the statue again.

Rook’s heard it mentioned a few times. First as the Path that Faith wanted him to walk. Then from Resistance members telling him of people forced along it, carrying heavy cult symbols on their backs and left where they fell, ragged corpses of family and friends that couldn’t be saved in time. It’s also how the fucked up zombie Angels get made, or most of them anyway. Forced to drink water spiked with Bliss, they walk the Pilgrimage and if they still refuse to join the cult as Angels - if they still have some awareness in them by that point - well, it all ends with a leap off the top of the statue. Seems like the better option, considering the mindless obedience of the Angels.

Rook heads out to the starting point, carefully dodging patrols and skirting around cult hotspots. He’s on his own to make things easier. It reminds him of those first few days following the helicopter crash, back when he’d been so sure he was heading straight out of Hope County.

Funny to think that if he’d never come across Boomer, never stopped by Fall’s End in a doomed attempt to find an owner and ended up watching John’s broadcast, he’d be long gone. Probably off on a job, hardly sparing a thought to the Seeds and their craziness.

There isn’t anyone by the two cabins set up at the beginning of the Pilgrimage. Occupied with other things, maybe. The Resistance hasn’t been silent while Rook was resting up. They’ve been hitting the Bliss shipments, making it harder for the cult to get the drug into Holland Valley and the Whitetail Mountains, and they’ve taken out a few Bliss fields too. Seeing that shit burn - from a distance - was quite the sight.

Problem is that there’s so much of the damn stuff, it isn’t easy to get rid of it all unless they put all their focus into eradicating it. And that, well, that’ll leave them open to attack from the cult. No one’s quite suicidal enough to risk pushing even gentle, demure Faith to retaliation.

Rook tips his head back, one hand shadowing his eyes against the morning sunlight as he looks up at Joseph’s statue.

It really is fucking huge. Must’ve taken ages to build, especially if the cult used their own people to do it. From the notes he’s picked up around the county and chats with Resistance members he knows it’s been around for just over two years, some big project of Faith’s - the latest Faith, that is. The cult really weren’t bothered about keeping things on the down-low, were they?

Rook adjusts his backpack and turns away from the statue. Lacking his heavier combat gear, Rook could almost pass for a normal Resistance member or local, if one wearing a bit more protection than most. He doubts it’d hold up as soon as anyone gets close. The whole damn county knows his face by now thanks to those posters. Avoiding the states is going to be a must for a while as soon as he’s finished up here.

The Pilgrimage starts with a stone tablet - _The Call_ \- and a path sprinkled with Bliss petals. Rook tugs up a bandanna to cover his nose and mouth, keen to avoid breathing any Bliss in. This small a dose probably wouldn’t have much of an effect, especially after the concentrations he’s been exposed to, but better safe than sorry.

Only reason he didn’t wear one regularly in the Henbane was because it fell down too easy, no matter how tight he tied the damn thing. Plus it could get uncomfortable in the lingering summer heat. Now that they’ve fully shifted into autumn, the cooler air helps with any sweat clinging to his skin under the bandanna so long as he tugs it down on occasion.

When he flicks the radio on music pours through; one of the slow acoustics Faith seems to prefer, going by what usually plays in her region. He keeps the volume low as he starts walking, John’s sunglasses settled on his face. The music makes a good accompaniment to his sedate pace, sunlight warming his face and bare arms, neatly contrasting the specks of dried blood he passes and the intermittent thunder of gunfire.

It’s nice, just taking a moment to exist in the space around him without a pressing need to be somewhere, to do something. He isn’t completely removed from the cult and everything happening in Hope County. If he wanted that, he sure as hell wouldn’t be following the Pilgrimage. No, this is…a taste of what makes up everything he likes about the county. Because let’s be honest, the insanity of this place is a big part of its appeal.

Rook plays at being a tourist, snapping photos of the best views Hope County has to offer. A bridge overlooking a deep gorge, the mountains stark and towering against a clear blue sky. The leaves of larch trees taking on the golden yellow of autumn. A tiny blue jay perched on the cult symbol set at the top of a metal pole sunk deep into the ground, right by another stone slab.

He doesn’t let himself pause when screams sound off close by, keeps his hands from twitching towards a gun. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being Hope County’s not-so-heroic deputy. Today? Today’s for him.

The cult presence gets denser as the path leads him towards Faith’s Gate, according to where the map in John’s office placed it. Rook shifts into the treeline and waits patiently for patrols to pass by, eyeing a nearby shrine. There’s something so…removed about it all. Wasting resources on shrines and pilgrimages and hundred-foot statues, then acting so concerned about surviving the Collapse. Leaving corpses alongside their pilgrimage, rotting at various stages, and claiming they only wish to save souls.

Hypocrisy isn’t anything new to Eden’s Gate, but walking this path of theirs really serves to drive it home.

Around midday, when Rook has stopped to eat his lunch, the cult songs end and a broadcast starts up. Within seconds he realises it’s a live sermon from Joseph. Right. Each Sunday, without fail, Joseph broadcasts out his sermon to every corner of the county. It’s the only time the Resistance are sure Joseph is at his church, but the place is so heavily guarded that no one’s seriously suggested attacking it. Not when they consider the losses they’d take in such an attempt, without much likelihood of it succeeding.

Rook pictures him there, standing up on his stage and looking down at his devoted followers, rosary dangling from his wrist. More sure than ever in the certainty of the coming Collapse. He must feel real vindicated about it all, predictions coming true and enough crap going on outside Hope County to serve as further proof.

The broadcast doesn’t carry the weight of his voice like it does in person, but it’s a decent imitation. So fucking familiar by now. Rook’s heard his speeches so many times in outposts and over the radio, heard all about what Joseph thinks of the world and how much better it’ll be when humanity is eradicated - apart from those he deems worthy.

Apart from Rook, and Joseph’s still so convinced that he’ll join their fucked up family.

And yeah, there’s the anger. It’s a creeping heat low in his gut, sparking higher with every word Joseph speaks. Anger, and a quiet yet heavy disappointment.

Because for a moment, Bliss and exhaustion and pain dulling his mind, Rook thought Joseph understood. He thought that maybe-

Maybe. That’s all. A possibility, a chance he tricked himself into believing in. Nothing more to it.

Rook gets moving when Joseph starts in on finding strength in the unity of family.

The tenth stone slate is the most interesting one. _The Father prophesies that the coming of a White Horse is the signal that the Collapse is near._ So that line in the church wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing. A neat coincidence, but it still catches his attention. Makes him think of Denise’s warnings, and dismiss that thought a moment later.

Joseph and his people are praying when Rook reaches the last station. If he keeps following the path it’ll lead him straight to the base of Joseph’s statue. Rook takes a slow breath, and walks around the mountain until he sees the large, white cult symbol painted on the ground, corpses with contorted bodies marring the stone. Then he starts climbing.

It’s a long climb. His arms begin to tremble when he’s just over half-way up, sweat sliding down his face and his fingers going numb. He glances down, smiles when he imagines a cultist finding his shattered body at the bottom of the cliff and having to explain it to Joseph. An inglorious end for the heretic, huh? Least it’d be quick.

And this is the best way up if he wants to avoid being spotted. The cult has snipers watching the skies and the steep slope down the mountain, more patrols roaming the dense woods along with helicopters and planes up above. Rook could risk trying to get past them all without being spotted. He’s managed before when he went to John’s ranch, and again with Jacob’s base. But as far as he can tell, no one considers climbing up the side of the cliff to be a feasible option. Which means no one’s watching for someone coming up this way.

See? He can be cautious. Choosing the less reckless option isn’t completely unheard of for him.

He keeps his breathing slow and even, and doesn’t let his pace falter. Thankfully the rock face has plenty of handholds to grab onto, so even as a steady ache builds in his shoulders he doesn’t have to think too hard about how to get himself up. It’s easy to fall into the lull of it, the repetitive movements and strain almost meditative. Easy to let his thoughts drift away from him until he isn’t really thinking at all.

Low voices announce he’s getting close to the top. He pauses, the overhang providing cover from anyone near the edge. Tracey told him about how heavily guarded this area tends to be, and the cultists here are well stocked up on ammunition too. They’re all aware of how tempting a target the statue makes for.

He waits for the voices to fade, then gets moving again at an angle that takes him to the slanted rocks which form a narrow platform at the front of the statue. Pulling himself up takes more effort than he’d like, leaving him panting as he rests back against the statue, pack set aside. The cool stone feels good against his back, shirt soaked with sweat and hands shaking as he flexes his fingers to get some feeling back.

When Rook opens his eyes, Joseph’s sermon is coming to a close. He’s encouraging his followers to hold to their faith, reassuring them that they will be rewarded for all they’ve sacrificed in the name of the Project. He comforts those who’ve lost friends and family, emphasising that the sinners will come to regret the harm they’ve caused. They’ll understand that by attacking others they only hurt themselves, and make it more difficult to reach the salvation their souls long for.

They’ll see the truth, guided by the Project and Joseph himself, or they’ll burn with the rest of the world.

Once Rook has his breathing back under control, he gets up. There are two entrances into the statue, leading up through the hollow insides to an exit that’s level with the open book. Rook edges around the base of the statue, listening carefully for anyone moving nearby. There are people - a man and a woman - talking quietly, but when he gets close enough he sees them walking away from him, heading towards the open area out behind the statue.

He watches for a bit longer, getting an idea for the number of people guarding the place. Several snipers, a couple of guys with rocket launchers, all more focused on the skies and mountain slopes than on anyone at the top with them. Too confident that they’d have spotted them by now.

There are more guards with rifles and shotguns, walking around in patrols of twos and threes, or standing at attention on the ridges leading down towards the end of the Pilgrimage. A few non-combatant cultists, carrying guns but without the same ease that the guards do. Focused on the statue or the white books in their hands, mumbled prayers on their lips.

Not many go inside the statue itself but the door’s been left open. When there’s no one nearby Rook keeps close to the statue and quickly makes his way inside. The air is instantly cooler, washing over his heated skin as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He doesn’t pause, hurrying down the stairs and watching for any guards he might’ve missed.

He’s lucky this time. No one interrupts him when he climbs the ladder up to the first level, and he brushes past crates stocked with ammunition on his way up the statue. Seems odd to him that they’re using the place for storage when it’s meant to be some kind of holy site. Then again, considering the violence intrinsic to the cult maybe it makes sense.

It’s hard to get a feel for just how high he is until he steps out onto the book. There’s a moment of deja vu, the Bliss-tinged memories rising up full force. Then his breath is taken away by the view stretching out before him. Miles of forest and the winding length of the Henbane River, steep valleys and hills rising up with rocky faces, none coming close to the distant mountains that cradle the county.

He gives himself a moment to take it in. To consider how peaceful it is, looking down on the entire county with the distance needed to allow what’s happening down there to go unnoticed.

He steps up to the edge of the book, toes over empty space. Long way to fall. Wouldn’t feel much of anything if he did - just several long seconds of wind rushing past his face, and then he’d be gone. No waking up like he did after the hallucination. Just- nothing.

It’s always there, isn’t it? Every time he’s at the edge of a high place, behind the wheel of a car, going into a fight. Always toeing the line between recklessness and- something else. The hungry, unforgiving urge to pitch himself over, to push himself to a place he won’t come back from. To find a challenge that’ll finally be too much.

Rook reaches out, feels the wind catch at his clothes and imagines it drawing him forward. Coaxing him with warm palms pressed to his shoulders and the whisper of something _more._

Belonging. Acceptance. Pretty lies for the kid who never quite stopped longing for a family who loved him.

Rook’s arms drop and he shakes his head, an amused huff escaping him as he rakes a hand through his hair. Better not let Denise catch him thinking this sort of shit again, she’ll skin him alive. He’s got family in her, maybe even in the Ryes now, and he shouldn’t forget that.

His steps are lighter when he moves away from the edge. He sets his pack near the door and grabs the remote explosives, humming as he gets to putting them in place. It takes a bit more climbing to move up to where the statue’s neck is, and he keeps an eye on the skies as he works, but in short order the explosives are where they need to be.

Tracey also told him about the copy of Joseph’s book that’s kept in the statue. A personal one given over to Faith’s care, apparently. During their chat Tracey made it pretty damn clear she wanted him to burn the thing whenever he got around to destroying the statue.

Curious, he opens it up and sees line after line of neat handwriting. A quick glance through reveals the content doesn’t differ much from the usual cult bibles. No, what makes it special - other than being written by Joseph - is the sketches placed intermittently throughout. Detailed scenes of the end, flames and crumbling cities and endless piles of the dead.

Eesh. If this is what Joseph sees when he gets these visions of the Collapse, it explains why he’s so determined, willing to go to any lengths necessary to save the people he considers family. If he’d stopped at that and hadn’t turned his attention to the unwilling, he wouldn’t be much more threatening than the dozens of doomsday preppers in the county.

The book goes in Rook’s backpack, and he makes his way to the edge of the concrete version. Rook switches on the microphone hooked into his radio.

“To anyone hanging about at the feet of Joseph’s statue, you’ve got two minutes to clear the area,” he says cheerfully. Then he finishes making the last few adjustments to his wingsuit and dives off the ledge, right as the cultists start to panic over the radio frequency.

He’s out of the area fast enough that he doesn’t worry about any sniper looking his way. Instead, he gets himself a fair distance and comes to a stumbling halt in some bushes. The two minutes have passed by the time he looks back at the statue, remote detonator in hand.

A flick of the switch and the charges blow.

At first, Rook can’t see the effect the explosives have even as he hears them go off, distant blasts that echo out.

Then there’s plumes of dust and smoke, and the deep, hair-raising screech of metal tearing alongside concrete. Slowly, then all at once the statue’s head tips forward off of the crumbling neck and hits the open book with a crack like a thunderclap. The impact sends it rolling over, taking half of the book with it.

Hollow or not he _feels_ it hit the flat rock at the bottom of the mountain, the reverberations hitting him even from this distance. Scattered pieces of neck and shoulder fall off the sides, but the bulk of the statue remains intact - making the missing head all the more prominent.

There’s dead silence over the radio. No cultists chattering. Not even any gunfire, for maybe the first time in weeks. And Rook feels the grin spread across his face, relishes in the bubble of exhilaration and dark, heated satisfaction as he waits.

He isn’t kept waiting long. Barely a few minutes have passed before his phone starts ringing. Rook lets it go on a bit longer, makes Joseph call again before he actually picks up.

Petty, him? Absolutely.

“Joseph,” he greets, amiable tone spread paper-thin.

_“What did you hope to accomplish with this…outburst?”_ Joseph hasn’t sounded so cold in quite some time, the disapproval heavy in his tone. Chastising, almost.

“You saw it, then? I wasn’t sure if you were too far away to get a good view.” A lie. He’s been close enough to the compound to know you can see the statue from there, clearly enough that on a sunny day like this? It’d be impossible to miss the lack of head.

_“I saw. And I understand.”_ Joseph’s voice eases, goes low and soothing. Controlled. _“You feel betrayed. I promised I would not allow Bliss to be given to you, and I broke that promise. I stood by as you suffered, failed you as you have been failed so many times before. And you respond in the only way you know how. With destruction.”_

A smile flits across Rook’s face. “Failed? That’s a little unfair. I think you came pretty close to succeeding. Another week or so of that and…well, you already had your targets picked out for me. Eli first, right?”

_“Rook-”_

“Jacob’s never managed to figure out where his base is, but you know I’ve been there before. I can get in and kill him before they realise there’s anything wrong, and do the same for every other leader. The ideal weapon for getting rid of the Resistance.”

_“Have you forgotten what I told you? You are not my soldier. You’re meant for greater things than this, and all I seek to do is give you the opportunity to cast aside those who would trap you, tie you to a world fated to be cleansed by fire.”_

“And tie me to this new world of yours instead?” Joseph still doesn’t understand, doesn’t _see._ “Even if they were dead, if you made me kill them all, every single fucking one of them - I’d still fight you, Joseph.” A harsh laugh leaves him, catches in his chest and it- it isn’t amused. Not anymore. “I’m set on this path and there’s no changing it, no going back.”

_“There’s still time,”_ Joseph argues, his determination as clear over the phone as it was in person. _“It isn’t too late.”_

“But it is. If someone tried to convince you to stop, told you all your visions were something your brain made up or, hell, just asked you to do things differently, would you listen?” he asks sharply, knowing the answer to his question already. Knowing Joseph, at least this much. “Say you even respected them and didn’t dismiss their opinion as easily as you normally would. Would that change a thing?”

There’s a telling silence.

Rook’s breath leaves him in an amused huff, and he’s abruptly tired. “We keep having the same damn conversation over and over again. It’s getting to the point of being just a tad irrational, ain’t it?”

Maybe this has gone on too long. Maybe…Maybe he’s drawn it out as far as it’ll go.

_“I will not give up on saving you.”_

“I know.” Rook tips his head back, closes his eyes against the sunlight and exhales slowly. It’s been a good ride, hasn’t it? A little much at times, but more engaging than any job he’s had in years. He won’t forget it any time soon.

“Okay,” he murmurs, shoulders relaxing and expression smoothing out as he comes to his decision. If something a little like regret sits bitterly in his stomach, well, no one needs to know. “This game’s gone on long enough. You’ve got a day, Joseph. Make the most of it.”


	26. Chapter 26

It feels good to have a clear direction again.

Things got…messy, for a while. Unclear. And yeah, that can be fun too, but if it goes on for too long it can be difficult to see the big picture. To understand why he’s still here. And it isn’t to keep playing this game with the Seeds - it’s to win it.

For the next day Rook keeps a close eye on Eden’s Gate and their communications. There’s always the possibility that such a straightforward threat would prompt a response from them, make them decide to strike first and catch the Resistance in the crossfire. As unsettling as it is to admit, Rook is reluctantly fond of the people he’s gotten to know. He doesn’t want them getting hurt.

So he goes back to the jail, grins at the cheery atmosphere and takes up watch on the front gate for the night.

It’s a quiet one, the area around the jail largely under Resistance control. Roadblocks and regular patrols help to keep it that way, along with scouts reporting back on cultists in the area, especially the Angels who can rip through a patrol if you let them get close. It makes for a semblance of order in the chaotic county, gradually established borders that both sides carefully test on a daily basis.

Once Joseph is dead, well. That order won’t last.

Grace comes up to stand with him partway through the night. She hadn’t been here when Rook first got back, so she must’ve arrived sometime in the evening.

“Why didn’t you destroy the whole thing?” she asks, gaze scrutinising while his stays on the roads leading up to the jail. No one out there right now. Just distant headlights on the hill to the right that could belong to anyone. It doesn’t come in their direction, so he soon glances away. “You had the opportunity. Making another point?”

“You know me pretty well, huh?” Better than most in Hope County. Makes it all the more surprising that she’s standing by his side rather than putting a bullet in his head. “Yeah, I was making a point.”

It’s too dark to get a good view of the statue, heavy cloud cover having rolled in and putting his night vision to the test, but during the day the lack of head is hard to miss. For all that the cult is happy to waste money and time building the thing, he can’t see them diverting people to repairing it. Not now, when their hold on Hope County is increasingly tenuous and with doomsday approaching. Joseph’s never given an exact date for that, but going by the rate at which Eden’s Gate is stripping farms and ferrying supplies to the bunkers, Rook’s assuming they think it’s soon.

Which means Joseph’s statue will be left headless for the foreseeable future. A rather blatant ‘fuck you’ to everything Joseph represents, the vandalism worse than outright destruction. More of a hit to pride, in his opinion. More personal.

Plus, if he kills Joseph by shooting him in the head, that’d be a fun callback.

“I thought you weren’t going to be throwing yourself into danger anymore,” Grace says neutrally. Carefully. Like he’s still in that fucked up state he was after the week with Jacob.

She doesn’t need to be. Rook’s better, as good as he’s going to get when the Seeds are still alive. When they’re dead he’ll have some room to breathe, to cut out the marks they’ve left on him. It’ll be good to get back to normal. Back to routine.

Rook shrugs. “I was careful. No one knew I was there, not until I wanted them to.”

“And next time?”

He sends her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I know my limits.”

It doesn’t placate her. Instead, Grace turns to face him fully. “You don’t have to do this alone. In the past you would’ve taken someone with you, me or Jess or even Hurk. Boomer and Peaches, at the very least. But you didn’t, not now and not with the Veterans Center.”

“I already told you why I attacked the Center like I did-”

“And today?”

“I wanted to go in quiet, that’s all. Reduce the chances of being caught.” He offers her a light smirk. “Besides, can you really say you’d be up for jumping off the statue with nothing but a wingsuit to keep you from going splat?”

Grace frowns. “That isn’t my point. We’re here to back you up, Rook. Let us help you.”

“I already did, didn’t I?” he bites out, harsher than he means. He tears his gaze away to look straight ahead, taking a slow, even breath and forcing the tension from his shoulders. “You’ve helped me enough. And I’m grateful for it, really. But I can get by on my own.”

He isn’t expecting Grace to slap him upside the back of his head.

Rook blinks at her, hand raising to his head in shock more than any sort of pain. Grace is scowling now, the warning glare on her face enough to send braver men than Rook running in the opposite direction. As it is, he’s too baffled to properly register it.

“What was that for..?”

“For being a stubborn, irrational idiot.” She jabs a finger at his chest, merciful enough to avoid his healing ribs. “This is my home, my people, and I’m going to defend it to my last breath. You see it all differently, and I understand that. But you don’t get to dismiss the people who give a shit about you and just want keep you alive.”

His jaw works as he struggles to find an answer to that. Problem is, he can’t argue back because, well…they’ve already proven they care. They risked a lot to rescue him, and that isn’t even counting the last couple months he’s spent fighting alongside these people. He can’t even say that the Rook they care about is a lie, because he’s allowed more of himself to leak into his current behaviour than he ever has in previous roles.

“What do you want me to do, then?” he asks hesitantly. What does Grace want from him?

Some of the frustration drains from her face, softens with exasperated fondness. “Ask for help when you need it. Tell us if you’ll be doing something dangerous. We’re your friends, Rook. You aren’t alone in this.”

He swallows, unsure whether to smile or frown or- or what the right expression is. His grip on his rifle is too tight, the plastic biting into his hand, and he carefully relaxes his fingers. “I-” He darts a glance over at her, then back to the road. “I’m going after Joseph tomorrow. Putting an end to this.”

Grace is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, it’s with the professional calm he’s grown used to from her. “Do you need backup?”

“No, I should be fine. Going in quiet, snipe him from a distance - there shouldn’t be much trouble.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I have an Olympic medal in sharpshooting,” she says wryly. “If anyone can make that shot, it’s me.”

A quiet, amused exhale leaves him. “Let me give it a try first? I’m actually pretty good at it.”

“And here I was thinking the reason you always get up close and personal is that you can’t aim for shit.”

Rook takes her words as a challenge, and they pass the next couple of hours making increasingly difficult shots on randomly assigned targets in the surrounding area. Rook curses out the rifle he’s using when he keeps failing to nick the edge of a sign several hundred metres away, to Grace’s quiet smugness when she puts a neat hole through the gap in the letter P.

“I’ll be using better equipment tomorrow,” he assures her, not wanting to admit that he’s pretty rusty after several months of hardly using a sniper rifle. Going quiet and sneaky hasn’t been a huge priority for the most part. Besides, he has more fun killing up close. Long-range is more for specific targets in busy or well-protected areas, not fights against a civilian militia.

“I’m sure that’ll make all the difference.” Grace lowers her rifle when the next shift of guards arrive, and gives him a small smile. “When you need a real sniper to finish the job, give me a call.”

* * *

Rook does check over all his weapons before heading out, and he’s happy to say that his aim improves with the use of the rifle Denise sent him.

It’s a model he’s used before, one that’s best for human targets without too many obstacles in the way. Bulletproof glass, sure, but he’d need a bigger gun for an armoured car or tank. Since he’s planning to shoot Joseph while he’s out in the open, this one will do. No point lugging around the heavy rifle settled in the bottom of the crate alongside the anti-tank weaponry.

Denise may have gone a little overboard with her care package. Seems a shame to never get a chance to use it all. Maybe he will, though; once Joseph is dead there’ll be cleanup to do. He’s still holding to his early prediction that Joseph’s death would make the cult lose whatever sense of moderation they have left and shift purely to an offensive approach, causing a lot of damage but leaving themselves open. He can rely on the Resistance to take advantage of that, and Rook will stick around long enough to help them before he makes his exit.

But he shouldn’t get too ahead of himself.

He’s grateful now for the day early on that he spent picking apart the rudimentary code Eden’s Gate use over the radio waves. Means that after a few hours of listening in, he knows that Joseph is still at the compound. Rook’s guess is that one of the many houses in the area belong to him, either somewhere within the woods or inside the barbed wire around the main area near the church. Right in the heart of the most protected area in Hope County aside from the Gates.

Rook sets out in the early afternoon, giving him the time he needs to travel up through Holland Valley into the south of the Whitetails. There are roads leading directly over to the bridges connecting the island the compound is on with the Whitetails. They’re always heavily patrolled, several roadblocks along both the north and south bridges that only allows cult members through. Helicopters and the occasional plane defend the skies, most patrolling further than the island itself or being used for moving supplies, all of them ready to be called in from their assigned tasks the second enemies are spotted.

Which makes the lake the best approach. There are cult gunboats out there too, speeding by and taking out any Resistance members or locals unlucky enough to get within range. But the lake is a large area, leaving the gunboats to concentrate at the shoreline and creating exploitable gaps. For example, one jet ski gets pretty damn hard to pick out when it’s driven by someone keeping a keen eye on their surroundings.

Objectively, an island is a good place to have the compound. They can control the roads, minimising the chance of a large attack force arriving so long as they have people in the air as well. However, it’s impossible to cover every inch of the shoreline. If Rook were in charge he’d have guards focused at the likeliest points of entry - close by the bridges, where the distance between the island and the other regions is at its shortest, at the west side of the compound where it backs onto the lake - with more patrols moving irregularly throughout the forest, ready to sound the alarm.

It seems like Jacob had a similar thought process, because as far as Rook’s seen the guards are positioned close to where he’d have chosen. Which leaves the shoreline he’s approaching now, just north of the compound and far from the bridge connecting them to the Whitetails, nice and empty.

Rook drags the jet ski out of the water, leaning it against a tree that’s half-collapsed from age or a recent storm and covering it in branches. Won’t hold up to close scrutiny, but all he needs is enough camouflage that the white and blue paint isn’t immediately obvious to anyone walking past.

Radio already tuned in to the frequency used by the guards here, Rook makes his way towards the compound. He’s quieter than he used to be, those lessons with Jess paying off, and he finds himself thinking back to the last time he was here. Running away from the helicopter crash without much thought other than getting away from the cultists firing on him, up until Burke put out that ill-advised call over the radio.

A nostalgic smile pulls at his mouth. That feels like a long time ago. He really had no idea what he was in for, the way things would turn out. How entertaining it would all be.

Dutch’s map is generally reliable when it comes to the area, accurate to the island a few years ago when Eden’s Gate first moved in. There hadn’t been much here back then. Various properties, all a few miles apart from each other, and a gas station off the main road. Then Eden’s Gate started buying up the houses, built their church here and formed a private community for themselves.

The barbed wire came later. By that point people already knew that if you came up here, it wasn’t a certainty you’d leave afterwards. It just took a couple of videos before anyone was willing to do something about the cult.

Which went…well.

The forest floor rises gradually at first, the grows to a steeper incline that has him ready to drop flat to the ground the second he sees anyone, conscious of the target he makes. All-black combat gear and body armour aren’t the most suited to this environment, but there’s enough foliage and ridges in the hill to provide cover when he needs it. In this case, he’s prioritised protection over camouflage. Hopefully he won’t regret it.

Rook keeps his approach slow, moving out of sight whenever a patrol passes near, alert to every snap of a twig and distant voice. He won’t risk setting off an alarm and miss out on the chance to kill Joseph. If he got caught now, Joseph would probably hide away in one of his bunkers. Much tougher to get into than the compound. Not impossible, but while Rook likes a challenge, he isn’t deliberately going to make this harder than it needs to be. He wants it over with.

So he’s cautious, taking a meandering route that eventually puts him high on a ridge overlooking the compound. No cameras pointed this way or patrols venturing by, and the altitude gives him a good view of the area. Distant enough that no one thought to cover this spot. It’ll do.

The process of unpacking the sniper rifle and piecing it together doesn’t take long, honed by thousands of repetitions with similar weapons. The cartridge slots into place and Rook looks down the sight, bracing the gun on his backpack and laid out on his front to minimise his silhouette.

From here he can pick out the details he missed that first night. There’s a large garden near the middle of the compound, mostly filled with vegetables but with a few colourful non-Bliss flowers clustered around, picnic benches set up nearby. Around to the north side is a shooting range, similar to the one in the Veteran’s Center, with crates of ammunition and guns piled up under a tarp cover.

Then there’s how many of the cultists are non-combatants. Most still carry guns but without the comfortable familiarity of the guards, lacking any protective gear and spanning a wide age range. They mill around the dozens of smaller houses at the edges of the compound, others by the white outbuildings and a few entering the large barn a short distance from Rook.

A watchtower sits just beside the barn, manned by two snipers covering a side each that are good incentive to stay low from his vantage point above them. He’ll have to trust the tall grass, thinning treeline and his dark clothes to hide his form in the limited light. There are a few spotlights facing the road leading to the compound and the surrounding forest, but none close enough to catch him. Not when he’s this far back from the compound.

He simply watches them for a while. It’s the most relaxed he’s seen the members of Eden’s Gate. Oh, the guards are attentive at their posts and there’s a definite tension in the lines of their bodies, several of them recognisable as Chosen with their clothing and broad stances.

But the non-combatants? It’s probably the first time Rook sees a cultist smiling with anything except malicious glee. Aside from his encounter with Michael, the kid who almost got eaten by a cougar and had the bright idea to name himself after a heretic. Wonder how he’s doing?

It also serves to remind Rook that he’s dealing with a civilian operation here. Jacob has his military background to give him an edge and it shows in their set up, in the diligence the guards display and their familiarity with the weapons they hold. But at the end of the day, there’s a huge gap in experience and training between them and Rook. It’s what makes him so difficult to deal with, considering the calibre of soldiers and private security he’s used to going up against. That, and his talent for surviving things he shouldn’t.

He’ll give them credit, though. They’ve put up a better fight than he ever expected. Even if using Bliss is fucking cheating.

Hours pass like this, looking through the sight and waiting. His ribs aren’t happy with the position he’s put himself in, a dull ache the rises with each breath and relaxes on the exhale. He still isn’t in the best of shape, broken fingers taped up and the bruising around his nose only just fading. Then there’s the muscle that’s slow to build back up. Thankfully he doesn’t need much muscle to pull a trigger. Just patience.

It’s around nine o’clock in the evening when he finally spots Joseph.

The reactions of the cultists clue him in first. The ones closest turn to Joseph when they see him walking in from the south side of the compound, following a narrow path through the trees that opens up once he reaches the first of the white buildings. Again wearing the white collared shirt and black vest, Joseph stops to speak with each cultist who approaches him, hands grasping their forearms or closing reassuringly over their shoulders.

Rook breathes in slowly, pushing aside memories of the last time he saw Joseph. It’s hard to. Easier to remember dirt and blood and cold and the cloudiness of Bliss, and Joseph there in front of him. So close and sympathetic and _accepting_ , and the warm press of his touch on Rook’s skin.

Mouth drawn into a hard grimace, Rook forces himself to focus on the present.

He needs this to stop. Needs to bring this to an end. He’s given too much of himself to Hope County and the Seeds, and it’s time to get those pieces back.

Killing Joseph will be the beginning of the end. He wanted to do this properly, like he’d planned in the beginning. Build up in stages until it was the right time, take away each member of Joseph’s family until he had nothing left - and then, finally, send him to join them. Instead he’s had to skip all that, go right to the source and do what’s necessary.

Necessary? No, this’ll be just as _satisfying_ as destroying the statue’s head was. Killing Joseph Seed has always been the endgame, Rook’s just upped the schedule a bit. Now, he’ll get to show everyone that there isn’t anything special about Joseph. He’ll die as easily as any other person, granted the impersonal death of a distant bullet blowing his brains out. Just another corpse.

(He’ll prove how meaningless Joseph’s words are. Prove that whatever connection Joseph imagines between them is a lie, or one-sided at best, severed before Joseph will even be aware of what Rook’s done.)

Rook adjusts his aim to account for the light breeze and bullet drop, following Joseph on his path to the church. He’ll need to shoot before Joseph enters, otherwise it won’t be possible to get a shot off until he leaves again. The few windows the church has are opaque, blocking his view of the inside, and he didn’t bring along the thermal scope. Rook would prefer not to hang about for however long Joseph plans to spend in the church, upping the chances of getting caught, so he’ll have to get this right.

Shifting a little to loosen off his muscles, Rook briefly checks for any guards looking his way. Once he confirms that Joseph is dead he’ll need to get out of here quickly. The rifle has a suppressor on which’ll help mask the direction of the shot, but everyone on the island will be on high alert and searching for the person who killed their beloved Father. If he gets caught it’ll be difficult to fight his way out, especially in this condition.

The route back down the hill and into the depths of the forest will only take a few seconds to sprint, and then he’ll have the dense trees to help him out. He’ll just need to watch for the guard dogs being sent after him - and the couple of Judges roaming around just outside the barbed wire fence - but other than that, he should be fine. Get to the jet ski and back to the Whitetails, because after killing Joseph off he’ll need to help Eli and his buddies kill Jacob. If anyone has the potential for continuing the bulk of the cult’s operations, it’s him.

The plan helps to ease away any lingering indecision. He knows what he’s doing, what he _will_ do, and the only thing left is to follow through.

Joseph is nearing the church now, passing out of view behind an outbuilding. It takes several long minutes for him to reappear, waylaid by a cultist, but the route ahead is cleared of any more distractions.

Rook steadies his aim. Joseph is an easier target than most Rook has had. Out in the open, no bulletproof vest or other visible protection. He doesn’t even have guards close by, far too trusting in his own perceived indestructibility. Just like in the helicopter, singing in that calm, even tone without a worry for the coming impact. Certain that God would protect him.

Finger brushing over the trigger, Rook stills entirely, heartbeat slowing to a familiar tempo as he focuses. Still aware enough that he’ll notice someone approaching his position, but otherwise narrowing his attention down to the view within the scope and the cool metal under his index finger. The world quiet outside of what’s relevant.

He takes a slow breath in.

Three pounds of pressure, that’s all the trigger needs. An action he’s done thousands of times before. One more life ended, no different from the rest. Nothing but another target.

_(“You are meant for a different purpose.”)_

Joseph pauses in front of the church doors to open them, and Rook-

His phone rings.

It’s on silent, nothing more than a faint vibration in his pocket, but Rook freezes. He doesn’t pull the trigger, doesn’t do what he’s _supposed to do,_ and by the time he focuses again Joseph is gone. Safe inside his church.

Rook breathes out a harsh curse. Of all the fucking times to get a phone call-

If this is John he’s going to skin him alive, give him a taste of his own medicine. For fuck’s sake.

But when he takes his phone out, there isn’t a name on the screen. It’s a number he has memorised, because he’d never put Denise’s details in there in case the phone was broken into. Denise can stop anyone tracing the call back when he rings her, but she never calls him. Never takes the additional risk unless it’s something important.

Rook grabs his backpack and slings the rifle strap over his shoulder. He has the phone up by his ear by the time he’s heading down the incline. “Denise? What’s-”

_“Oh thank fuck,”_ she breathes, a desperate edge to her voice that instantly has him on high alert. _“I didn’t know if you’d pick up, you’re busy and shit and-_ fuck, _Rook.”_

He keeps moving, knowing that Eden’s Gate will be aware of the call the second he picked up - and the longer it goes on, the higher the chance that they’ll get his location too. But there’s no way he’ll hang up, not when Denise sounds so anxious.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” His voice is barely above a murmur, and he watches his surroundings closely for any patrols. He’s still got the radio on so hopefully that’ll give him advance warning if they do trace his location to their island. If that happens, if they find out he was here, so close to the compound and Joseph…Fuck, there’s no chance he’ll get another opportunity like this.

Something to deal with later, when Denise doesn’t need him. “What’s the situation?”

_“The situation is-”_ She laughs, something caustic and sharp. _“-we’re fucked, Rook. Chessboard flipped and the pieces set on_ fucking _fire!”_

“Let’s just take a deep breath and calm down-”

_“Don’t you tell me to calm down, sunshine,”_ she snarls, the surge of anger wiping away her previous fear. _“This is not a scenario where calm is in any way a rational response, so you can fuck right off with that bullshit!”_

He hears her breathe through the speaker, harsh and strained, until it gradually evens out. “Feel better?”

_“Oh, fuck you Rook, you manipulative jackass.”_

“You gonna tell me what’s going on out there, or should I start guessing?”

He keeps his tone deliberately casual. It’ll keep Denise irritated instead of scared, give her some space to think straight. At least it doesn’t sound as if she’s in danger right at this second. Nothing he can do even if she was, which is a thought that has him gritting his teeth.

_“Shit, okay. Okay.”_

There’s a long pause as she gets her thoughts together. Rook slides down a ridge, his night vision taking some time to adjust after staring at the compound for so long. At least he doesn’t trip over any roots or fallen branches, and he’s reasonably certain he’s going in the right direction.

_“So, y’know how that cult leader of yours keeps preaching about the end of the world?”_

Rook frowns in confusion. “What about him?”

He’s close to the shore now, lake visible through the thinning trees. The jet ski won’t be far from here. He gets the earpiece connected up to the phone instead of the radio, leaving his hands free.

_“He might be onto something.”_


	27. Chapter 27

Rook goes very, very still.

“Run that by me again.”

Denise’s voice is shaky when she speaks. _“It’s bad, Rook. I’m not- shit, I’m not exaggerating here. I don’t know how much you’ve heard ‘bout anything outside of the county, but I can promise you it’s worse than they’re saying. Everyone I know- they’re all going to ground, telling me I need to get in a fucking_ bunker _like the politicians and billionaires are doing. And now I’m stuck in the states ‘cause they’re not allowing air travel and I don’t know what’s gonna happen but it feels serious, and, fucking hell Rook, I_ need _you.”_

It takes a long moment for him to get moving again, pushing aside the branches covering the jet ski in mechanical movements. Bunkers. It’s got to the stage where Denise’s contacts are warning her to get to a bunker. That means bombs, nuclear if politicians are getting worried, and there’s no way of knowing how soon it’ll happen. Not reliably, not if it’s as bad as Denise is saying.

“Can you get to Hope County?” he says calmly, taking the sniper rifle apart so it’ll fit in his backpack. There are prepper bunkers all over the county. He can get enough supplies to last him, Denise, Oliver and Amanda a few years, and hole up nearby until it hits.

His efficient movements stutter when he wonders how he’ll get Boomer, Peaches and Cheeseburger down there. How he’ll feed three carnivores for at least three years, maybe more depending on how close the bombs fall to Hope County.

And there’s… there are so many people in Hope County. Nick and Kim and Carmina, Grace, Jess, Hurk, Sharky- hundreds more, thousands, too many to live inside the prepper bunkers. Carmina can’t grow up in a tiny bunker hardly big enough for a couple of people.

But there’s no other choice, not if he wants the people he’s grown attached to to survive through this.

He could…He could stop caring. It’d be better, right? To stop, and focus on the people he’s known for years over those he met months ago. He could reach into his chest and rip out those delicate connections, cut them away until it’ll be like he never came here, until he’s numb and bleeding and empty. Hollow.

_“Yeah, yeah I can. It might take a couple of weeks to get Amanda and Oliver here too, but we can do it. We’ll be there.”_

Denise sounds better now she has a plan to follow. Good. That’s…that’s good.

“Okay.” He starts pushing the jet ski towards the water. “I’ll get things ready here. Hail me on the radio when you arrive, and I’ll find you.” He pauses, and tries to sound as reassuring as he can. “It’ll be alright. I’ll see you soon, Denise.”

When she says her goodbyes, Rook forces himself to get on the jet ski even as his mind lags behind him. Before he knows it he’s in the Whitetails, gravel crunching underfoot and hands shaking. He finds a cabin, one he and Jess used before, and stumbles inside.

Then he lets the full weight of what’s happening hit him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, tension drawing every muscle in his body tight and refusing to release. He restrains the urge to lash out, to try to claw back the cool, calm focus by trashing his surroundings. He won’t be that person, refuses to be. Even now.

Instead he breathes, deep and slow. Takes that panicked, snarling thing in his chest and steadies it with each inhalation, relaxes his muscles every time he exhales. Over and over until it finally sticks. Until he can stand there without wanting to hurt anyone.

His nails manage to leave indents in his skin through his gloves. It’s a good thing he was wearing them.

The idle observation pulls a faint, tired snort from him.

* * *

Rook doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t like admitting that - hates it, really - but it’s the truth.

He’s got to face facts here. He cares about the people in Hope County. He’s a fucked up mess of a person, but he can’t leave them all to die. Can’t ignore what their fate will be after spending the last few months putting his ass on the line to save them. Not after talking with them and fighting alongside them and reaching the point where he actually considers some of them his friends. He’s invested, okay?

So. That means he needs to do something. Which isn’t exactly a helpful observation, but it’s a start.

Rook paces back and forth across the living room to eat up some of his restless energy. It doesn’t help much, the room too small for his long strides, but it at least makes him feel like he isn’t just standing around in a random cabin trying to come up with a plan. A plan to somehow save several hundred people - maybe more, who the fuck knows how many locals and Resistance members there are - from nuclear bombs.

There aren’t enough prepper bunkers for everyone. Most are compromised in some way, too, and very few will be well-supplied. There are, however, three other options. Three bunkers with enough room to house over a thousand people.

Three bunkers currently under the firm control of violent psychopaths.

That’s alright, he can work with that. It’s a possibility, at least. Gain control over one of the bunkers, kick out the cultists and take it for the Resistance. That part isn’t too difficult. What’s harder is maintaining that control when Eden’s Gate will be doing everything they can to get it back. That’s without even taking into consideration possibly needing to stock up on more supplies, depending on how much the Gate has already, and ensuring that people can get to the bunker in a short amount of time. For anyone far away when the bombs drop, that’ll be difficult.

Really, it’d be better if they had control over every Gate so people can just evacuate to whichever is closest.

Rook pauses. If they had a Gate…well, the cult will be thinking along the same lines. Wanting a safe place for their people to go to in every region. Currently they have that, but if Rook took one - that puts him in a bargaining position he can make use of. We keep this Gate, you stick to yours, and when the end comes we all go to the nearest bunker. No interference.

Put a pause on the current conflict, too. What does it matter if bombs are going to drop any day now? It’ll piss the Resistance off, but if it’s their best shot at survival then Rook will convince them. As for Eden’s Gate…

Shit. They’re not really known for being rational, huh? He needs…He needs more than just the Gate. He needs more to offer them.

Or he could force them into a position where they have to accept. And that? That Rook can do.

* * *

His phone starts ringing again on the way back to the jail. He’s changed the ringtone to be personalised, so he knows it isn’t Denise and ignores it. Whoever is calling is determined, calling several more times before they finally give up. Rook keeps the radio off too, because he really isn’t keen on hearing whatever the Seeds have to say about his recent phone call.

They must’ve said _something,_ because when he gets to the jail Grace is waiting for him. So is Whitehorse, Tracey and Staci, and their expressions make it clear that whatever the Seeds said over the radio, it wasn’t good.

“You want to tell me why Joseph Seed thinks you’ve finally seen the light?” Grace has her arms crossed, braced in a stance that lets him know she sure isn’t happy with him. Worried, too, which at least means she’ll listen.

Rook grimaces. This is gonna be fun to explain.

They let him lead them inside, going into Virgil’s office where they’ll have some privacy. The man himself isn’t here - asleep most likely - and Rook leans back against his desk as he tries to find the right words. Honesty this time, only a few lies to hide exactly what Denise’s job is and who her contacts are. Hurries through how exactly he got into contact with the outside and makes it sound like he got the phone recently.

All that’s left is everything Denise told him, and the fact that he trusts her word more than anything else in the world. Then, because they haven’t told him to fuck off, he tells them the plan he’s scraped together.

“You want to go after a Gate?” Whitehorse asks, his voice carefully even. He does a good job at not looking at Rook like he’s a crazy person. Probably all that practice.

“Yeah.” Rook manages a half-smile. “John’s, to be exact. Hudson’s been kept waiting long enough, don’t you think?”

That gets Whitehorse to pause, guilt flashing across his face. Yeah, Rook thought that would do it.

But then Tracey steps forward. “That’s not why you’re doing it. You seriously think Joseph Seed is right? That we’re gonna have a fucking _nuclear_ war?” She’s looking at him like he’s declared he’s decided to join Eden’s Gate, incredulous and outraged. And, just a flicker of betrayal.

It’s that last emotion which has Rook dropping the manipulative angle, going for straightforward instead. “Honestly? This hasn’t got anything to do with the shit he’s been saying. I trust Denise with my life. She’s-” He pauses, considering how much to tell them. “She’s well connected. Works with intelligence agencies and knows a lot of people who’d see what’s coming for what it is. And I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the radio, but a nuclear war ain’t the most surprising outcome.”

“You think that’s enough?” Tracey shakes her head. “Fucking hell Rook, we aren’t talking about taking over an outpost here. This is one of the most defended places in the county.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“I think you’ll get killed trying,” Grace interjects. Her expression hasn’t shifted much the entire time he spoke, just the same quiet consideration. Only now her gaze is piercing. “You’re still recovering. Even on a good day, with people to back you up, you wouldn’t stand a chance at taking on the whole bunker without destroying it.”

“So little faith in me, jeez.” He straightens up, fiercely grateful that Grace is questioning his plan rather than the idea of nuclear war at all. It shows she’s at least willing to consider it. “I’ve got an idea for making the peggies stand down before we even show up. You’ll just need to be ready to take over once they’re out, and get enough people there to hold it if anyone objects.”

“And what’s the idea?”

Rook grins at her. “I’m gonna have a chat with John Seed. It’s his Gate we’ll be taking, after all.”

There’s a brief silence.

“I’m in,” Staci says. He’s kept to the corner of the room, near the door with his back close to the wall, and so still that he’s easy to overlook. Now that he speaks up, everyone’s attention turns to him. “Jacob is wrong about a lot of things, but what’s coming? That isn’t one of them. We need a Gate for our people. John’s will be the easiest to take, he’s weaker than the others.” A hard smile forms on his face. “Distracted.”

When the others don’t speak up, Rook looks to both Tracey and Whitehorse. “If you want, view it like any other outpost - harder to take over, sure, but it’s got a shit tonne more resources in it too. If this civil war of ours doesn’t end soon, we’ll need that. ‘Sides, it’ll piss them off.”

“Valid point,” Tracey acknowledges. She looks at him for a long moment. “You sure you can pull this off?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fuck. Can’t believe I’m actually considering this…” She glances at Whitehorse. “Sheriff? What d’you think?”

“I think that we’ve left Deputy Hudson there for far too long.” Whitehorse meets Rook’s gaze, weary yet resolute. “If you can get the peggies to stand down, we’ll help you hold the bunker. I’ll get Fall’s End on the line and see if we can’t bring more people in.”

Rook relaxes, breath leaving him in a rush. There’s one aspect of the plan taken care of. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” A steel edge enters his voice. “If this goes to shit I’m holding you responsible. We lost some good people getting you away from Jacob Seed, and I’m not allowing their sacrifice to be for nothing.”

The reminder has Rook stilling. He flexes his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. A restless, contained movement. “It won’t be. You might not believe me, but I’m trying to repay the favour.” His lips quirk into a smile that’s only a little mocking. “To save you.”

Grace snorts. “If you start talking like Joseph Seed now you think the world is ending, I’m gonna punch you.”

The comment startles a chuckle from him. “And I will forgive you, my child, for you do not see what I see-” He cuts himself off when she takes a very threatening step towards him, and throws his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry, I promise I won’t.”

“Good. You’re crazy enough as it is.”

The other three all nod, and Rook feels as if he should be offended. Mostly, he’s just relieved. One step taken care of.

Now, for the interesting part.

* * *

The area around the ranch is so stripped down on guards that Rook hardly has to make the effort to get by unnoticed. Nothing like the compound, or even when he visited the ranch previously. It’s the first sign that he’s expected.

The second sign is John standing by the fireplace on the lower floor. His back is to Rook, and a slight shift in his posture reveals the handgun he’s holding. A revolver, something heavy and impressive looking. More for style than effectiveness. But at the end of the day, a bullet’s a bullet.

Rook steps through the open doorway and lets his boots scuff against the floorboards, announcing his presence. John tenses but he doesn’t turn, not yet.

“Expecting company?” Rook says. No one’s in the ranch as far as he can tell, no one apart from John. Leaving himself open again, because having men a call away can only do so much when the threat’s in the room with you. And people call Rook reckless.

The rigid line of John’s shoulders draws tighter. “I had a suspicion. I suppose I was right.”

“Are you going to shoot me, John?” The question is idle, almost amused. After everything John’s said, Rook can’t see him pulling the trigger. Maybe to injure but not to kill. Not Rook.

“You went to kill Joseph tonight, didn’t you?” The calm, musing tone doesn’t fit John’s words. Doesn’t fit the care the siblings have shown for each other, voicemails and affectionate touches and the closeness of too many broken pieces trying to figure out a way to fit together. “You were going to kill my _brother.”_

“I was.” No point in lying. They’d managed to get his location then, from that brief phone call. There aren’t many assumptions that could be made for why Rook would be on the island, undetected and - if they had any half-decent trackers who could follow his path and see where he lingered - laid out on a ridge overlooking the compound.

John turns now, expression hard and the gun raised to point directly at Rook’s head.

“I should shoot you,” he snarls, voice tight with barely restrained anger and the aching fear of knowing how close he was to losing his brother. Knowing, and being unable to do anything about it.

“But you won’t.” And that certainty makes Rook curious, makes him step closer without a hint of hesitation. John won’t shoot him, won’t pull the trigger and put an end to the problems Rook causes for him and his family. They’ve had so many chances already, better ones than this. Threatening Joseph’s life won’t be enough to push John over the edge. He could see Jacob taking a shot at him - eagerly, even - but John?

John’s in too deep, invested too much of himself, and he knows it.

And Rook…Now isn’t the time. Too much to focus on, to plan for, and he can’t afford to get distracted. Bad enough that he’s already attached, already wants to smooth out the stress lines in John’s brow and tuck back the stray strands of hair resting on his forehead. He can’t afford to think of John as a person right now.

The corner of John’s mouth pulls into a sardonic smirk, harsh and unnatural. “So confident, even now. So ready to die. Is that what you want, Rook?” And here his voice turns cajoling, mockingly sweet. “Do you want me to finally end things for you? Make it all _stop?”_

Gritting his teeth at the jab, Rook shakes his head. “No. You’d know that if you listened in on my call with Denise.”

“Oh, I heard that call alright.” John’s knuckles are white where they grip the revolver, anger flashing sharp across his face. “I heard how _little_ it took for you to drop every belief you’ve clung to, to forget about every _second_ you’ve fought us and resisted the truth, all because of a few vague words. You never even _questioned_ it!”

And there’s something almost like hurt, under the mountain of wrath and frustration. “She told you the world was coming to an end and you _listened.”_

“She’s my best friend. I trust her.” Denise is his, has never proven to be anything else. If she says the world is ending, he believes her without hesitation.

It must show in his expression, because John’s anger abruptly drops away in favour of a pained, stark longing. It disappears just as quickly, locked down under a control that frays at the edges. That still shows too much.

Rook keeps moving closer, slow and even until he’s right in front of John. A minute tremble runs through John’s hand when Rook carefully wraps his fingers around John’s wrist. He’s just watching Rook, doesn’t make a single move to pull away. Frozen in place.

Then Rook yanks him closer, the barrel of the revolver pressed cold and smooth against Rook’s throat. His other hand presses flat against the brick fireplace beside John’s head, caging him in on that side. Stupid. Stupid and cocky and just proving another point, testing another line, and he doesn’t want to die - too much to do, have to see if there’s room in his schedule in a few weeks time, call back later - but he’s never claimed to be the cautious type.

“You won’t shoot me.” His voice is low, hushed. They’re close enough that it doesn’t need to be any louder. John’s eyes are riveted to his, wide and blue and just as pretty as they were at the river, when he thought it was Bliss making them that way. Turns out that part wasn’t a lie at least.

“You want me,” he starts, and John swallows hard.

It makes Rook pause, the rest of his sentence caught. He tilts his head slightly, and considers the uptick in John’s pulse, the loosening grip on the revolver, and the faint flush gradually spreading over his cheeks.

Rook doesn’t give any sign of what he’s noticed. Instead, he continues like he never paused. “You want me to join you, remember? To walk through Eden’s Gate at your side.” His grasp on John’s wrist tightens to the point where it must be painful, just a little, and John’s already weakened composure starts to crack. “Hand in hand. I can’t do that if I’m dead, now can I?”

He looks at John expectantly, waits for the slight nod. Then he leans in, makes sure he has every bit of John’s attention. _Wants_ it, and he keeps that thrill of fascination carefully contained. “Lower the gun, and let’s talk.”

He makes it a choice. He isn’t going to force John to lower his weapon, even though they both know he could. No, this is…this is control of a different kind. More than physical force and threat. Pulling at the threads of every offer John’s made before now, every shared moment and confession, building to the heat in John’s gaze and the near-desperate hunger plain as day in his face.

Once Rook releases John’s wrist, the gun drops.

John doesn’t let go completely, gun pointed at the ground, and he musters up a hard glare that’s almost enough to mask the increase in his breathing. “And what, exactly, is there to talk about? You’re here to kill me, aren’t you? Bringing this game to an end so you can save your precious friends.”

John laughs coldly and grabs the key to his bunker, yanking it off his neck and holding it up between them. “Take it. Take everything we’ve built for yourself and destroy all those in your way, _Wrath._ It’s the only thing you’re good for.”

Rook doesn’t take the key. He smiles, sharp and wide and with a hint of teeth that has John tensing further. “Why would I ever kill someone as interesting as you?”

Because in all his plans of killing Joseph, going after Jacob next - he hadn’t been able to factor John in. Hadn’t been able to make that decision just yet, though he’s known there wasn’t much chance of leaving John alive. Not if Rook wants to free Hope County entirely from the cult’s grasp.

But now? Now those plans are gone, tossed aside in favour of a much bigger issue. Which means Rook doesn’t need to kill any of the Seeds. The game he’s been so focused on for the past two months, so utterly absorbed in, it’s over. Ended before a winner could be decided.

Now there’s something new in its place. Something…different. One with far more choice, and higher stakes than Rook’s ever seen.

One where John Seed doesn’t necessarily have to be an enemy.

“The end is coming,” Rook says, each word quiet and deliberate. Acknowledging what the Seeds have been trying to convince him of. “Nothing any of us can do to stop it. I didn’t believe you. None of you, because I needed more than any of you were capable of offering.”

“What did you need?” John’s voice is raw and he’s watching Rook like he isn’t capable of looking away. Like he doesn’t know how to.

“I needed to look at you, and decide you were worth more than the entertainment I could get out of winning this game.”

It’s cruel, Rook knows that. But it’s also honest. He’d listened to the Seeds, paid attention to everything they did or said, but he never would’ve changed course when he was so set on his current path. Couldn’t let himself see them as anything more than players in a game, because if he did? Everything suddenly got a whole lot more confusing, twisting away from the format Rook knows how to handle.

Got no choice about it now, however. Time to put his ability to adapt to the test.

John flinches, shifts as if to move back but there’s nowhere to go, not pressed up to the fireplace like he is. Not unless he’s willing to push back, and though the revolver moves up an inch he doesn’t aim it at Rook.

Instead he draws on his anger like a shield, wraps himself in it as scorn twists his expression. “How shallow your reasoning turns out to be. Is that all there is to you? A desire for _entertainment_ at the expense of everything else?” John is the one to lean in this time, a mean smile curving across his face. His chest brushes against Rook’s, a light, warm, pressure. “Anything to fill the empty space burrowed deep in your soul. For at least a short while, anyway. It never lasts, does it?”

“No,” Rook admits, the cruel use of what he’d told John weeks ago making his eyes narrow. Not in anger. Far from it, in fact. The corner of his mouth quirks up. John’s been paying attention, hasn’t he? He’s been listening, just like he promised. He meant it.

“No, I thought not,” John says snidely, eyebrows raised. “And it never will. You’ll chase the next distraction and the one after that, and never find fulfilment. Every hand offered to you rejected, cast aside without a second thought. Are you satisfied with how this turned out? With the realisation that you were wrong from the very beginning, fighting a meaningless war? Was your _entertainment_ worth it?”

He’s glaring at Rook, burning bright and digging into Rook with everything he has, and though he doesn’t see it all, doesn’t quite understand, maybe he could. Maybe he’s capable of it.

“I think…” Rook’s head tilts as he considers John, his rage and hurt and _need_. “I think I was wrong about you. We’ll have to see.”

Before John can respond he takes the key. John’s grip is so loose that it doesn’t take any effort, and Rook steps back. It’s a small thing, for such an important item. Without this it’d be impossible to go deeper into the Gate without causing a lot of damage. Not an option, considering they’ll be needing those bunker doors to defend against a nuclear bomb.

He’s gonna have to trust that the Gate is up to scratch. Eli had a hand in building them so he knows it’s good work, and for all the cult’s irrationality and obsession with sin, so far they’ve proven to be pretty well-prepared - both for their little holy war and, ideally, for the Collapse. No relying on God (solely) to protect them or anything like that. Once he gets the Gate he’ll have a better idea of what he’s working with, but Rook’s hoping that any changes or additions will be minimal. Don’t really have the time for major construction projects.

John has gotten his breathing under control by the time Rook looks back over to him. Appearance perfectly unruffled, and hell if it doesn’t make Rook want to change that fact.

“I’m gonna need one last thing from you before I go.”

“And why would I do anything for you?” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in John’s eyes, uneasy now that he doesn’t know what comes next, the flash of anger buried for now. And he’s thinking about what Rook just said, clear as day. Taking Rook’s admission and running it over in his mind, deciding what it means now that Rook’s priorities have shifted.

“So none of your people have to die.” Rook unclips the radio from his belt and holds it out. “Make a call to your bunker. Tell them to leave.”

John takes the radio cautiously. “What guarantee do I have that they won’t be shot the second they step outside?”

“I can promise, if that’d make you feel better.”

“It wouldn’t.”

Rook shrugs. “Well, you can tell them to get out of there and I’ll make sure they aren’t killed, or they stay where they are and get shot. Your choice.”

It’s obviously not much of one. With clear reluctance John shifts through the frequencies and pauses when he comes to what must be the correct one. His finger taps slowly against the radio as he eyes Rook. “What will you do, once you have control of the Gate? You won’t be able to hold it for long. A week at most, before we take it back. Is it really worth the people you’ll lose attempting to keep it?”

Rook takes the cords looped through the key and ties them around his neck, flashing John a grin. “That’s why I’ll be coming back here straight after. We’re gonna have us a parley.”


	28. Chapter 28

Once John has passed on the message to leave the bunker - sharp orders to the guy currently in command at the Gate, who never questions John even once - he holds out the radio with a bland smile.

“There. Within the next half hour you’ll be free to steal the product of hundreds of thousands of dollars and years of hard work. Do try not to shoot any of the pregnant women and young children in the process.”

“Thanks,” Rook says brightly, clipping the radio back on his belt. That went pretty well, all things considered. Minimal fuss. “You mind waiting here until I’m done? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let your brothers know, either.”

Incredulity breaks through John’s recovered composure. “You seem to be under the impression that I’m cooperating willingly. The only reason I agreed to clear the Gate is so good people aren’t slaughtered due to your _selfishness-”_

“And because you want to see where this is going.” Rook grins at him, harsh edges neatly packed away now that there’s no need for them. “Admit it. You want a front-row seat to whatever I’m planning next.”

“I _want-”_ John bites back the rest of his sentence, and yeah, Rook can think of a few things John might want. John takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “You’ll come back here, and we will discuss the terms of your surrender. Otherwise, we’ll take the Gate back today. We outnumber you, Rook. All it takes is one Bliss bullet and, well. You know how that goes.”

“Hey.” Faster than John can react, Rook shifts in close and clasps a hand around the side of his neck, thumb pressed up against the front of his throat. Not tight, not enough to cut off his breath. Just resting there.

John freezes, his pulse thumping hard against Rook’s fingers.

“Don’t threaten me with Bliss, okay?” Rook says quietly. “We’ve gone over that.” And he’s been ignored so many times now, let them get away with it without much in the way of consequence, especially John. At least Jacob got stabbed, and Rook _was_ about the kill Joseph when he got interrupted; John, on the other hand…Too much favouritism and people will notice.

John clears his throat, confidence shaken. He still doesn’t bring the gun up. “It won’t be necessary if we can come to an agreement.”

“Surrender, you said.” Rook taps his thumb slowly against John’s throat, and bends down those few inches until their gazes meet at the same level, his other hand curving over John’s shoulder. He can feel how tense the muscles are, as well as how John leans into the touch, just slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. “I prefer negotiation. You wanted me to be an equal, John. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

“Unfortunate choice of words,” John says quickly. And his pupils- hell if they aren’t dilated right now. Rook’s betting that fear doesn’t have much to do with John’s racing pulse. Not just fear, anyway.

Rook smiles fondly, and watches how it makes John’s gaze drop to his mouth. “Good. I won’t be long.”

He leaves John standing there, revolver still in hand, and decides that this? Playing with John? _Way_ more satisfying than blowing the head off of Joseph’s statue.

* * *

Rook hasn’t relied entirely on John to ensure there’ll be no interference.

“Got an update for me, Sharky?” He starts the truck up - jeez, he’s hotwired more cars lately than he has since he was a teenager, he makes for a terrible cop - as Grace slides into the seat beside him, rifle in hand. She’d been watching their surroundings while he was in the ranch, ready to warn him if guards got called in and take out any threats. See, Rook can totally accept help. He’s a very well-adjusted individual.

_“Things’re really heating up over here!”_ Sharky sounds out of breath and exhilarated, voice muffled a little through the radio. He’ll (hopefully) have a mask on while he’s out burning the fields of Bliss alongside the Cougars. That or a wet shirt over his mouth and nose, because it isn’t like they have a stockpile of gas masks to use. Yet, if things go well. _“Two down, plenty more to go!”_

As distractions go, Rook figures that several fields of Bliss being set on fire would be a decent one and had been happy to take Sharky’s enthusiastic suggestion on board. It’ll occupy Faith’s attention at least. They’ve got enough people on it to do some damage - not enough to provoke a huge response and get the jail attacked, but they’ll hopefully be too busy dealing with that to mind what’s going on in other regions.

Rook glances over at Grace. “The railway yard?” It was one of the first outposts he took down, and among the few that the cult has managed to claw back. As a bonus, it’s on the east border of the valley - a good distance from the Gate.

“Underway. There’s a bigger force than we were expecting, but Hurk’s with them.”

Rook snorts. “Yeah, that’ll make some noise.” The team sent to the outpost has a pretty simple directive: be as loud and attention-grabbing as possible. The goal isn’t to take the outpost, it’s to draw in any cultists who might be patrolling around. Get the alarms going, take some cultists out but don’t focus on kills, just on making noise. “Any word from Eli?”

“They’ll be hitting a supply run near Baron Lumber Mill any time now.”

Dutch’s been passing on the message of what they’re doing, after he finished pointing out how crazy this attempt is. No one’s gonna argue that taking a Gate won’t piss of the cult. Hell, up until now no one’s even considered going for a Gate, not when it’d be impossible to hold with the Project determined to get it back - John wasn’t wrong about that. Never mind how well defended they are, and that’s once you’re able to get past the bunker doors.

So yeah, Rook wasn’t too optimistic about getting any help on this. Colour him surprised to hear that Eli’s thrown in his lot and decided to help out. Taking out a supply convoy isn’t too much of a risk for him, but it still shows more support than Rook was anticipating.

And that’s- well. That might be the influence he’s built up coming to fruition. He’s practically a myth of his own by this point. A consistent, key figure able to stand against the Seeds, taking back land and killing cultists in droves - doing the impossible and turning the tide on Eden’s Gate’s takeover. And the Seeds have just added to it, made Rook important and _known_ in a way they should’ve been smart enough to avoid.

The Resistance? They listen to him, trust him, because in their eyes he’s their leader. None of them realise that a guy like Rook should never be trusted with that sort of power. It’s pure fucking luck that his goals happen to work out in favour of the county.

(Pure luck that he gives a damn about them.)

The road is quiet on the way to the Gate, and Rook deliberately avoids the main roads. Using a cult truck should keep the cultists from shooting right off the bat, especially when it’s hard to tell who’s driving in the dark, but he’d rather keep away from trouble if he can help it. For once.

“How sure are you that we won’t be walkin’ into an ambush?” Grace’s gaze doesn’t stray from the windshield, keeping an eye on their surroundings as they head north.

“I heard John give the order. With any luck, most of them will be gone by the time we arrive.” The Resistance are already on their way ahead of Rook and Grace, preparing to move in on the area once the cultists clear out. They’re keeping quiet on the radio so for all Rook knows they’ve arrived already. He’ll just have to hope Whitehorse and Jerome have control of the situation.

“You trust John Seed now?”

“To a certain extent.” Rook shoots Grave a smirk. “I’m confident he won’t fuck this up, at least. Too curious for his own good.” No need to go into detail on any other reasons John might not interfere.

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

Grace is quiet for a long moment. “You’re sure about this? World’s ending, just like the peggies have been sayin’ all along?”

“I’m sure.” His fingers tap against the steering wheel, restless energy building the closer they get to the Gate. Anticipating a fight even when - if everything’s gone according to plan - there shouldn’t be one at all. “Even a broken clock’s right twice a day, yeah? Doesn’t mean they’re right about everything else. And shit, I’m not saying we should all go join the cult and dance around singing Kumbaya.”

“But you _are_ gonna make a deal with them. With Joseph Seed.” Her tone couldn’t be any more judgemental. Only the layer of clear concern eases out his first, defensive reaction.

“Yeah, I am. ‘Cause the other option is letting people I care about die, and that isn’t happening.” That’s the core of it all. Whatever he needs to do to keep them safe, to get them through the end of the fucking world, he’ll do it. Deals with the proverbial devil (bet Joseph would love that comparison) and all. “So. We get the Gate, have us a bargaining position to work with, and then I’ll convince the Seeds to let us bunk up with them when the county gets fried to a crisp.”

“Quite the plan you’ve got there.”

“I don’t see anyone else coming up with something better.”

Grace concedes to that, at least. When he glances over at her she’s frowning at him, brow pinched with worry. “They’ll take everythin’ they can get out of this, you know that. Don’t let them push too far.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and hopes it’s one he can keep.

Because the thing is? If it means the safety of the people he loves, there isn’t anything Rook wouldn’t do.

* * *

They’re near the top of the incline leading to the Gate when they see the first of the Resistance trucks. The trucks are clustered in makeshift roadblocks, set up to delay any cult patrols which might show up. Ideally the distractions will work out like they should, splitting the Project’s attention and forces long enough that they’ll have some time before they notice they’ve lost a Gate. Won’t last forever though, not when the people who just left the Gate are able to radio out what’s happened once they realise something’s up with John’s orders, if they haven’t already. Blind obedience can only get you so far.

They’ll have to make the most of what time they have. The plan is to get back to John’s ranch and start negotiating before the cult tries reclaiming the Gate, but there’s no guarantee he’ll have that much time. Let’s hope John does keep to his word, otherwise they’ll have a couple of hours at most.

Rook gets out the truck first, assault rifle in hand in case of any trouble. He’d gone into John’s place unarmed but now he’s geared up, ready for a potential conflict no matter what he’d done to avoid it. Plans can always fall apart and he feels better having weapons on him.

So do the Resistance by the looks of it, because everyone he sees is armed. They’re tense as well, sparing brief nods of greeting when he passes by. Not surprising, considering the scale of this operation. Most of them are still civilians no matter what they’re dressed up like, unused to doing anything like this. Two months isn’t long enough for everyone to acclimatise and it shows.

And Rook soon sees another reason for the strained atmosphere.

Held at gunpoint are at least sixty cultists gathered just inside the gates. All of them are on their knees, hands raised and fearful expressions on their faces. They’re unarmed, a pile of weaponry over near the guard station, and- shit. There are kids among them, babies in their mother’s arms and pregnant women kept to the centre of the group, like the cultists are trying to protect them.

“What’s going on?” Rook asks. None of the Resistance members look keen to answer him, stiffening when his gaze falls on them. Might have something to do with how cold his tone is.

“Just a precaution, that’s all.” Jerome walks over to him. His mouth is drawn in a tight line, clearly unhappy with what they’re doing. Doing it anyway.

Rook doesn’t have any sympathy for him. “You were supposed to let them leave.” That was the plan - Rook made it pretty fucking clear that the cultists should be left alone, allowed to head on out without interference unless they showed signs of setting traps or raised an alarm.

“We did. The majority are long gone, and these…” He looks to the cultists, bemusement flickering across his face. And a guarded kind of hope. “They want to defect.”

That’s about when Rook spots Michael kneeling near the front of the group. He’s recognisable despite it being ages since Rook met him over in the Henbane, because hey, of course he’s gonna remember a cultist who named himself after Rook. The kid’s staring right at him, eyes wide and- shit.

He’s looking at Rook a hell of a lot like the cultists look at their Heralds, that shade of reverence he’s gotten familiar with lately.

“Fucking hell,” Rook mutters.

He slings the rifle over his shoulder and brushes past the guards, ignoring the guns now pointed at his back. Yeah, caution isn’t a bad thing, but there’s no part of him that’s cool with seeing guns aimed at kids and babies. He isn’t the king of morality but he tries to keep to some standards, okay?

Closer now, he can see the bruise forming on Michael’s cheek. Like someone hit him with the stock of a gun, maybe. There’s a sheen to Michael’s eyes and the floodlights give a good view of how scared he is, and reminds Rook that he can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen. Too young to be dealing with this shit.

(And maybe it’s a coincidence that a lot of the cultists Rook’s been sparing are the young ones, the kids too wrapped up in Joseph’s rhetoric to know better, indoctrinated over the years or drawn in by a bleak future. Maybe after fighting these people for the last few months, Rook’s got a good understanding of just _why_ they joined Eden’s Gate.)

Crouching down in front of Michael, Rook offers him a small smile. “Hey, kid. Wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

And somehow, all that fear shifts to relief and gratitude when he sees Rook. “Deputy, you- you’re here. I thought you would be, that’s why we stayed and I told everyone you’d be here, but then they took our weapons and I- I wasn’t sure if you were here, we asked for you and-” He flinches slightly.

Yeah, Rook can imagine what might’ve happened. Michael’s not the only cultist who looks a bit roughed up. A man kneeling beside Michael is sporting a split lip, another with what’s probably a broken nose, and shit, there’s definitely a few Chosen sprinkled among them. All watching Rook and none of them looking the least bit hostile. What the fuck.

“I was at John’s,” Rook explains, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder in the hopes of calming him. Without hesitation Michael leans into the touch, a faint shudder running through his skinny body. “He told you all to leave, so why’re you still here?”

The Chosen kneeling nearby is the one who answers. “We wish to join you.”

“Right. Defectors,” he says, like that somehow makes sense (it doesn’t, what the _fuck)._ “Mind telling me why? Last I heard, I’m one of the sinners you guys aren’t so fond of.”

“You walk alongside them but you aren’t a sinner,” the Chosen says, voice laced with conviction. He’s looking at Rook like he has the power to make or break him, like Rook’s standing high above them when really he’s crouched down at their level. “We need balance, insight even the Father can’t provide, and that’s why God sent you to us. He knew we wouldn’t be able to save every soul in the county, that our neighbours wouldn’t listen to the Father, so He chose you to lead them to Eden. Your success against us can’t be explained any other way.”

Okay. Rook really doesn’t know where to even start with that.

“The Father said-” Michael takes a shaky breath in, eyes wide and earnest. “He said you understand now. Earlier on the radio, he talked about you, said you’re not wilfully blind anymore. You realise that the Collapse is coming, don’t you? That’s why you want the Gate.”

“You aren’t…wrong,” Rook says slowly.

“Please let us join you! I don’t- I don’t want to fight anymore. Please.”

Rook squeezes Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright. You don’t have to fight.” And he’s noticing now that a lot of the other cultists here are young too, most in their twenties aside from a couple of the Chosen and some of the women holding babies and kids. He hesitates when he meets the gaze of one of the women, her form braced like she’s expecting a blow and arms held protectively around a toddler crying faintly, the sound muffled against her chest.

“I’ll make sure you get to Joseph’s compound, if you want?” he offers, softens his voice while making sure it can still be heard. “Joining me isn’t what you think it is. I’m no herald, and if you do stick around your people are gonna see it as a betrayal. I’m-” He frowns, then quickly smooths out the expression when several cultists tense up. “I won’t be going after the Project anymore - we’ve got bigger things to worry about - but that doesn’t mean we’re on the same side.”

“Aren’t we?” It’s a young woman who speaks up, her chin raising as she looks at him with a steady confidence, marred only slightly by the tremble in her hands. “The Father’s invited you into our family, and _his_ family, and now you’re preparin’ for the Collapse just like he told us to.”

“By taking John’s Gate,” he points out.

“The Herald told us to leave. He knew you were comin’ and he ordered us to go so that you could occupy the Gate without conflict. He must believe in you - like we do.”

The first part’s not technically wrong. Just twisted like Eden’s Gate have a bad habit of doing. “And you’re still here.”

She nods. “We knew you were comin’, Michael said so. Besides, this Gate is prepared for the moms and babies and lil’ kids. It’s got supplies and facilities the other Gates don’t, not for this many. If we leave now we can’t be sure the other Gates will be ready in time.”

Finally, a reason he can understand. Still doesn’t explain why they think joining him is the way to go, but if it’s a matter of needing somewhere prepped for keeping pregnant women and babies alive through seven years underground…It makes sense that they’d be reluctant to leave if this place has got the best set up for that.

And hell, but Rook can sort of see the benefit to them staying. This whole potential deal with the Seeds means that when the bombs do drop, people are gonna run for the closest bunker - with no choice over who they’re stuck with. Letting these guys stay here could be a sort of trial run for whether the locals and cultists can get along. A chance to see if the locals can forgive the shitstorm the cult started, if the cultists can keep their beliefs to themselves when they’re not being riled up by the Seeds.

Time to put his influence over the Resistance to the test.

(Months of fighting for these people, standing between them and the cult and never asking for anything in return. Wandering the entire county, learning names and faces and stories, sparing a moment to speak with most he comes across. Becoming one of them, face of the Resistance and capable of the impossible.

And he’s shed Michael Rook along the way, whittled down to just Rook, just a killer who looked at the county and picked the target set up nice and neat right in front of him. Now- now that needs to be enough. He needs to be enough.)

Rook straightens up and turns to face the guards. Some familiar faces he recognises from the prison, others from Fall’s End he doesn’t know as well. Jerome and Mary May, the latter frowning hard. Then there’s Whitehorse coming up the road, taking everything in with raised eyebrows and a resigned expression. Hostility and confusion are predominant, and there are enough eyes on Rook that he feels like the star of the show.

He barely has to raise his voice when everyone’s so quiet, attention firmly on Rook. “Lower your weapons. These people are with us now.”

And he meets every single gaze, challenging them to object. Doesn’t smirk at saying that order for the second time today, or at how ridiculous it is to tell the Resistance that a group of peggies are on their side now. No, instead he stands there utterly sure of himself, because the key to getting people to do what you want is to act like there’s no potential outcome where they don’t.

(Let’s himself feel it, all that fear and unease and _need._ Fills himself up with the solid certainty that he’s going to fix this, he’s going to make sure the people he cares about survives, and not a damn thing will stop him.)

There’s hesitance and more confusion, a few who open their mouths but don’t make a sound. He spots Grace lingering at the edges of the crowd, looking a second away from stepping in.

Then, one by one, the guns are lowered.

* * *

It isn’t all so easy. Jerome takes over on watching the cultists, because while this doesn’t seem like the sort of tactic Joseph would employ, it’s right up Jacob’s alley. Sure, they all seem ridiculously earnest about it - he could do without the near-worshipful gratitude, thank you very much - but Rook isn’t gonna act like they aren’t John’s people at the end of the day. And fact of the matter is? He just doesn’t have time to deal with this right now.

So he claps Jerome on the shoulder and leaves it up to him to sort them out, with a promise that he’ll come back to help figure things out later. That earns a cool stare from the pastor, but he doesn’t refuse, so- good enough.

“How’re we looking?” he asks Whitehorse as they take the staircase down into the bunker. Weird to think that the last time he was here, Rook was cutting his way through cultists. They’ve managed to clean up the bloodstains. Probably wasn’t great for morale.

“Clear so far.” Whitehorse has a shotgun in hand, ready to use it in case this does turn out to be a trap. Better safe than sorry. “Dutch and Mary May are keepin’ an eye out for any activity, but it doesn’t look like they realise what’s happened yet. Won’t be that way for much longer.”

“We just need a few hours.” Time to get the Gate, check it’s clear and set up a guard presence that’ll keep the cult from sweeping in and taking it back with ease. When Rook was leaving the bunker last time he heard people screaming too, so he’s assuming there’ll be prisoners for them to sort out. That’ll have to be a secondary concern after getting security set up.

Before he goes back to talk with Joseph, he needs to know that they’ve established control here and that the place hasn’t been sabotaged. No use in having a bargaining chip that’s worthless.

They aren’t alone, more Resistance members bulking out their team to two dozen. All Whitehorse’s people, which makes for a few faces Rook can put names to. Hanson, two kids back at the jail and one of the first to lower his weapon up top. Spencer, a little jumpy but a good shot - Rook helped her with that himself in the weeks he stayed at the jail. More he makes a point of greeting, because right now he needs to know these people aren’t going to fuck up Rook’s plans for getting them through the end of the world.

They make it to the bunker door in short order, Rook taking point since he’s the only one who’s been through this place before. They’ve got blueprints now, courtesy of Eli, so the rest of the Gate isn’t too much of a mystery. The cult took the abandoned missile silo and turned it into a full-fledged underground complex. Big enough to house thousands of people, the amount of money that went into building these things is ridiculous even to Rook, who regularly blows money on pricey gear and equipment that has a nasty tendency of getting destroyed.

And now, well. The cult’s cash-burning is working in his favour.

For a second when Rook’s putting the key in the door, he wonders if this could be a trap. If the place is rigged to blow once the cultists made their way out, locked by one of the men who didn’t stick around afterwards. Or if John’s key isn’t even the real one, since it’d be a good idea to wear a fake if you were gonna carry it around so openly.

Tumblers shift inside the locking mechanism and allow Whitehorse to turn the wheel, the heavy metal door pulling open. Huh. Not a trap after all.

They split ways once they get inside. Whitehorse leading most of the Resistance members down to the makeshift prisoner cells, off to free Hudson and any other would-be converts. Hanson’s in charge of checking for any cultists, all of them on a short-wave frequency to sound the alert if anyone uninvited shows up.

Rook offers a loose salute and turns towards the security terminal. It takes some exploring to find it - Eli’s blueprints were good, but not that specific - and he resists the urge to keep checking his watch. Luck’s on his side though and the cult decided to be logical about the placement; towards the centre of the complex on one of the lower floors not used for storage.

Monitors give him a view of the majority of the bunker, linked up to some of the cameras he spotted on his way here. The quality isn’t the best but within a few minutes he’s relatively sure the bunker is empty aside from the prisoners, one monitor even showing a blurred form that could be Hudson in a depressing-looking room.

He lets the Resistance know and eyes the switchboard set up without the faintest idea of how it operates all the doors and- power, maybe? Looks like those ones could be for power, and there’s a radio system too. A lot of the tech looks at least twenty years out of date, stripped to basics. Doesn’t seem like the cult would cut costs on this sort of thing. Less energy to run that way, maybe?

Rook drops down into a squeaky swivel chair set close to the monitors. A faint, breathless laugh escapes him.

It hasn’t really hit, just what’s gonna happen when the bombs fall. How much things will change and the world he’ll never see again, not like it is now. He tries his best not to be sentimental, but when he gets thinking about it-

There’s gonna be a lot he’ll miss. The California beach house with its wall of postcards and the comfiest bed money could buy. That one tiny cafe in Rome which makes the best chocolate cake he’s ever tasted, with the hot barista who’s always up for flirting with him, each pickup line increasingly ridiculous and punny. The music store in Belfast he’s wasted hours upon hours in, bulky headphones on as he gives every no-namer and garage band a shot. Film festivals and concerts he’d attend with Denise, swallowed up by the crowds with vibrant paint on their sweat-slicked skin. And that isn’t even getting started on places he meant to visit but never got around to, the places that’ll be devastated by bombs falling, turned to ruins and poisoned by radiation for years.

He doesn’t want it to be real. He wants Denise to be wrong, for this all to be a false alarm that’ll leave him looking like an idiot. But Denise doesn’t panic like that, not for anything less than a certainty. She would’ve made sure before contacting him, checked with all her contacts until it wasn’t just a possibility or prediction, but a sure thing.

So he’s got to do his part to make sure she’s safe, that everyone he cares about is. He’s got the bunker. Now, he needs to ensure Eden’s Gate’s cooperation.

Let’s hope Joseph’s in a reasonable mood.


	29. Chapter 29

As soon as the Resistance look like they’ve got a handle on securing the Gate, Rook gets ready to go to John’s ranch.

He won’t take Grace with him this time. Instead, he asks her to help watch over the cultists. He trusts her to keep a level head and knows that for however much she enjoys killing them, she won’t shoot at unarmed people (at kids and babies, and now he knows where the cult’s children all went he wishes he didn’t, that it’d stayed a mystery he didn’t think much about). With Jerome and Whitehorse around too, Rook’s confident that things will stay unfucked long enough for him to sort this deal out.

No one’s particularly happy with what he’s doing, but that’s why Rook doesn’t leave this part up for debate. Whitehorse already tried to talk him out of it back at the jail. Saying that the Seeds wouldn’t honour any deal he made and he’s only risking himself by doing this. The rest all agreed, that was clear enough. But they’re following his lead. Putting their faith in him, and isn’t that just the greatest fucking joke of them all.

Now that the first part of his plan has worked out, he isn’t keen on the delay to the next. Mary May stops him on his way out and suggests destroying the bunker, making sure that the cult can’t use it while taking all the supplies for the Resistance.

“Most of it’s ours anyway,” she says, unsubtle in the glares she kept shooting the cultists.

They’re all clustered near the guard station still, most sat down but the Chosen and a few cultists who look like they’ve been in a fight or two up on their feet, uneasy and darting glances at Rook. Resistance members are keeping watch but no are weapons pointed in the group’s direction. Once the bunker’s cleared of the prisoners the cultists will replace them, because no one wants to bring sixty cultists back to town with them.

Rook’s already told them to listen to Jerome, that they’ll just be set up there temporarily until things are sorted, and they’ll all have access to the things they need. For whatever reason Michael and Alison - the female cultist who spoke up earlier - seem to be leading the group, or acting as their spokesmen at least, and they’d promised no one would kick off. Rook can’t say he trusts them, but he also can’t ignore that they sure as hell think they’re being honest.

Mary May looks back to him, her arms crossing. “No need to waste our time and people defendin’ this place if we do enough damage to make it useless.”

“And when the bombs fall we’ll all die.” Rook takes a breath then, shoving down the bristling irritation. He can’t make them all believe him, and that’s fine. So long as they listen enough that he can get them to safety when the Collapse starts, they can doubt all they like. “We’re keeping the bunker. I need you to trust me for a month or two, that’s it. If the bombs don’t drop by then you can do whatever you want with it.”

Mary May’s eyes narrow on him, and he meets her gaze resolutely. Doesn’t say that if anyone tries destroying the Gate or taking it, he’ll kill them. Newfound friends or not, he’ll prioritise the people he loves if he needs to. He’s just as ready to make the Resistance his enemy as he is the Seeds.

(There’s no room for reluctance, for hesitation. He can’t stop, not yet, not when he’s so close to making sure they’ll be safe. He can’t let anyone stop him.)

After a long moment, Mary May jerks her chin towards a truck. “Better get goin’ then.”

He manages something close to a grateful smile and hurries to the truck. Every second that ticks by is one where Jacob could be readying his people to come after the Gate. As soon as Rook is on the road he’s got the radio on, flicking through frequencies and practically flying down the hill, kicking up a spray of gravel with a hard turn onto the main road.

There’s no chatter, not more than normal. He catches the cult discussing the attacks on the railway yard, the Bliss fields and the supply trucks in the Whitetails, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s put it together that the attacks were coordinated. They’re finishing up now, and that means the delay won’t hold for much longer. Rook’s frankly surprised that the cultists who evacuated the Gate - the group that left where Michael’s stuck around - haven’t said something yet.

Unless they have, but because the order came from John the cult hasn’t acted yet? Once Joseph or Jacob heard they would contact John, try to understand why he did it, and John-

Who the hell knows what John’s doing. Rook’s been betting on him wanting to see how this plays out, but the specifics? That’s all on John and the guy isn’t the most predictable.

Getting close to the ranch it becomes clear that John’s sent away even the peripheral guards, leaving the ranch entirely exposed. Hell, Rook’s able to park up right by the lodge and there isn’t a single person shooting at him. He gets out of the truck and after a cautious glance around, darts up the steps to the lodge. Painfully aware that cultists could show up any minute now, sent in by two concerned brothers, ready to fuck up Rook’s plan.

Can it even be called a plan when it’s this patchy and made up as he goes along?

The door’s still unlocked but John isn’t on the first floor. It doesn’t take long to figure out where he is - the blast of music from upstairs has Rook grabbing his pistol, and it takes a second to realise it isn’t coming from an approaching truck. It’s one of the cult songs turned on high, a woman singing about the Bliss that Rook has heard plenty of times by now. It’s blaring out from inside the lodge, up in the room they had dinner in a month or so ago.

That’s an auspicious start.

Once he gets upstairs it’s to the sight of John Seed pouring what definitely isn’t his first glass of- vodka. That’s, yep, that’s straight vodka. The expensive kind, sure, but definitely the sort of thing you drink purely to get wasted fast. Half the bottle is gone already, and the way John knocks back his next glass has Rook worrying for the state of his liver.

“Thought you didn’t keep alcohol here,” Rook says.

John startles, vodka sloshing out of the glass and spilling onto the floorboards. When he sees Rook he grins widely, and there’s a hazy contentment to his expression that makes it obvious he isn’t just drunk - he’s high, too. Bliss is the best bet, enough of it to affect John when Rook’s been assuming the Seeds have some kind of immunity to it.

“Rook!” John stumbles over to him, and when John trips and nearly faceplants into his chest Rook catches him. “I have a-” John leans in, voice lowering to a hushed whisper. His breath reeks of alcohol and yep, there’s the burnt sugar scent of Bliss. “I have a secret stash for emergencies. Don’t tell Joseph, he’ll get all self-rus- self- _righteous_ about it, and today’s been a real _day,_ you know?”

“I won’t tell him.” Rook takes the glass and sets it aside before John can get more of it on Rook’s shirt. John makes a sound of protest but when he reaches for the glass he overbalances, leaving Rook to catch him for the second time. “C’mon, let’s get you sat down, you human disaster.”

John laughs and pats Rook’s bicep, then seems to get distracting poking his muscles as Rook guides him over to the couch. This…wasn’t what he was expecting when he came back here. Alcohol and Bliss smooth over John’s edges, leaving him as harmless as Rook’s ever seen him. Also makes him wonder whether it’s safe to mix the two because while John’s decently coherent right now, for him to be acting like this it must be hitting him hard.

“I really, really hate this song,” John tells him in a wondering tone, like he’s come to some grand revelation, as Rook gets him seated. “My version is the best of course but I still- I hate it. It seemed such a good idea at the time, the music and the signs and the branding - do _you_ think they’re a good idea? The songs?”

“They’re catchy,” Rook admits, hand on John’s shoulder when he sways forward, threatening to tip off the couch.

“Catchy.” John nods. “Yes, yes they _are._ They’re supposed to be. I can’t escape them, they’re on all the time and people sing them and I’ll never escape. I’ll never hear good music again.” John looks like he doesn’t know how to feel about that. Maybe he’d feel sad if the Bliss wasn’t keeping him calm and content.

Rook eyes the shattered glass scattered across the floor - again - mixed with the broken remnants of a radio, a couple of the dining table chairs tossed on their sides and missing a few snapped off legs, and guesses that John didn’t start off so happy.

Rook’s- okay. He’s not quite sure what to do here. Get him a glass of water, maybe? Rook’s dealt with people when they’re drunk or high, or both, and he’s going to hope that it isn’t too different with Bliss. And that the mixing won’t do any damage, because if too much alcohol and weed together is bad (and it’s _bad,_ Christ he’s never thrown up so much or had it hurt so fucking bad _)_ Rook can’t imagine what alcohol and Bliss can do.

“Wait right here, okay?” He goes to walk away when John grabs his wrist. Well, he misses the first attempt - grasping at empty air a few inches to the left of Rook’s hand - but gets there in the end, grip reasonably strong for how much John’s swaying even when sitting.

“Don’t go,” John says. Beneath all the Bliss-fuelled ease, there’s a flicker of desperation that turns his demand into a plea. “We’re supposed to negotiate, you can’t leave yet.”

“I’m not leaving.” Rook’s fingers close over John’s in a light, reassuring squeeze. “I’m just getting you some water, then I’ll be back.”

“Oh. That’s alright, then.”

Rook waits a moment and when John doesn’t show any signs of letting go, Rook carefully removes the hold and heads back into the hallway. Pouring John a glass of water in his shiny, expensive kitchen with the marble worktops, bronze taps and ornate wooden cabinets, Rook wonders how the hell he got to this point. Taking care of a drunk John Seed wasn’t really on the agenda, but he’s doing it anyway.

Since he’s in there he makes John some toast too. It’ll soak up the alcohol and if he does throw up later, there’s nothing worse than dry heaving due to an empty stomach. Miracle of miracles, John’s still on the couch when he gets back. Rook pauses to turn the radio off on his way over.

“You made me food,” John says as he takes the plate, wide-eyed and inordinately pleased.

Rook sits next to him. The no-doubt stupidly expensive leather couch is heaven to sink into after today’s fuckery. “I made you toast,” he corrects, handing the water over and staring pointedly until John drinks it. It won’t sober him up, not if he’s had as much as Rook suspects, but it’s better than leaving him like this.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Rook takes the now empty glass when it looks like John might drop it, and watches in vague bemusement as John tears up the toast into smaller pieces before he actually eats it.

John’s appearance is noticeably dishevelled compared to earlier, hair mussed and escaping whatever product he uses to smooth it back, vest open and an extra shirt button dropped at some point too. He’s also making no attempt at controlling himself - doesn’t seem capable of it right now. Makes Rook wonder what the hell John was thinking when he decided to get in this state despite knowing Rook would be coming back.

And Rook really can’t let himself get distracted from _why_ he came back. “John.” It takes a couple of calls of his name to get John’s attention. “Where’s your phone?”

“Right here.” John pats his vest pocket, notices it’s empty and proceeds to search through every other pocket until he finds it in his jeans. He holds it up with a triumphant smirk that has Rook snorting in amusement.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Of course you can! You only need ask, _Deputy_ Rook.” The emphasis has John chuckling for some reason. He holds the cell phone out with what might’ve been a flourish if he’d had the coordination for it. As it is, Rook’s just lucky he manages to catch the phone before it’s flung to the ground.

Rook has to ask for the password before he can get in - John’s still capable of listing off a twelve-digit string of numbers in this state, which is honestly pretty impressive - and despite the urge to snoop, Rook goes straight to the contacts and calls Joseph.

It doesn’t ring for long before Joseph picks up. _“John, I’ve been trying to contact you-”_

“Hey Joseph. Long time no threaten.” Like, two days in fact. Fucking hell.

There’s a tense pause. _“Rook. Where is my brother?”_

“He’s fine, sitting right beside me in fact.” Not paying the least bit of attention right now, slumped back against the couch and examining his own tattoos with deep fascination, fingers tracing over the small planes near his wrist. “So how about we keep this civil and hold off on any actions we might regret, yeah?”

_“You won’t harm him,”_ Joseph says, so certain that it just pokes right at that part of Rook which loves proving people wrong. It feels like a dare because it definitely isn’t a threat, not with Joseph sounding so calm and overly familiar.

And it’s fucking unfair that it isn’t even all that tempting.

John’s just…Rook doesn’t want him dead, is all. But he still wants it clear to Joseph that Rook isn’t above hurting John if this talk fails. So he lets the threat creep into his voice, twining through light amiability. “Right now, sure. He’s safe as houses. I’d like to keep it that way, and I’m sure you would too.”

_“I would.”_ Joseph is slower to respond now, almost cautious. Good.

“Then keep your people in check. No surprises, no storming the ranch or attacking Resistance forces. In return, John will be fine and we can get to talking about what’ll happen now I’ve got control over a Gate.”

_“A Gate-”_ Joseph cuts himself off, no doubt putting together whatever reports he’s had.

“Yep. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill anyone to get it. Makes for a change of pace.” It’s weird to think that he hasn’t actually killed anyone in a while. He’s used to that happening on a daily basis, but he barely killed anyone in the time between leaving the jail and going on the Pilgrimage. Might’ve helped encourage those cultists to think jumping ship was a good idea.

_“You see now, don’t you?”_ Joseph’s voice is quiet, wondering. None of the triumph Rook would’ve expected. _“You see what’s coming.”_

“I know bombs are gonna fall any day now. Not quite God’s righteous fire, just plain old human bullshit.” John shifts and Rook grabs the plate before it can fall off his knee, setting it down on the coffee table. He also quickly makes sure John doesn’t have his gun on him because _ha,_ no thank you. “But yeah, I’m seeing things real clear right now and I’m getting my priorities in order.”

_“These ‘priorities’ would be your friend,”_ he says, cooler now. _“Denise, wasn’t it? And Oliver and Amanda.”_ Rook doesn’t like hearing Joseph say their names. There’s nothing threatening about the way he says it, but Rook doesn’t want Joseph anywhere near them. _“You want to save them from the Collapse and bring them through the Gates of Eden. You don’t yet understand that there is no place for them. Not as they are now, before they have atoned and been cleansed of the sins which poison their hearts.”_

Rook snorts. “Good luck trying that with any of them. They’re a lot less- ah, _indulgent_ than I am. No, this is the part where you realise you ain’t running the show any longer. Because Joseph?” His voice lowers, harsher now and bluntly honest. “If you think I’m bad when I’m having fun fucking with your operation, you’re in for a nasty surprise.”

A hand on his shoulder breaks Rook away from the conversation. He glances over to see John staring intensely at his chest, holding Rook’s shoulder for balance as he leans in close. “This isn’t right,” he says with a frown. Then he splays a hand over Rook’s chest plate, looking utterly confused by its presence. “There’s supposed to be something there.”

“What’s supposed to be there?” Rook doesn’t mean to sound so fondly amused, but it sure comes out that way. Well, guess he’s fucked then. Goodbye any lingering, frayed sense of self-preservation, nice having you around while it lasted.

“I don’t know.” John prods the chest plate again, then slumps against Rook’s side with a put upon sigh. The warm weight of him is unexpected, making tension creep into Rook’s body before he gets himself under control again. “What _are_ you? You should tell me, I’ve very good at keeping secrets,” John assures him, all eager earnestness and the lack of any sort of filter.

“I’m sure you are.” Rook lifts his arm from where it’s trapped between them and sets it on the back of the couch.

_“Rook?”_

“Oh, right.” Rook blinks, absently wondering what Joseph made of the one-sided conversation. “Your brother is super high right now, by the way. I thought you were all immune to Bliss?” He’ll keep the drunk part to himself. He’s nice like that.

_“No one is immune to the gifts which Bliss offers.”_ Despite what Joseph says, he doesn’t sound too happy about it. Maybe he’s a good enough brother to be concerned about John’s use of it, considering John’s history of substance abuse mentioned in that bible of theirs.

Or maybe not; Faith’s definitely uses that shit going by her radio broadcasts and what she said to him those couple times they met, sees it as freeing and completely different from any other drug. For some reason - the shit is strong, and they’ve got a freakish amount of variations in its uses (seriously, what the fuck is going on with the Angels), but at the end of the day it’s just another way to shut out the shittiness of the world.

But then Joseph asks, _“Do you know how much he took?”_ So yeah, confirmation he isn’t the worst brother in the world.

“His eyes don’t have that freaky green tint and he’s…sort of coherent, so he’s probably alright.” Rook pauses. Huh. Kind of got off track there. And okay, he knows his attention span can suck at times, but this is sort of an important issue that’d be great to focus on, thanks. “…back to what I was saying. I’ve got control of a Gate, and I’ll be keeping it through the Collapse. You leave it be, call your people off from hunting down sinners and reaping, and when the end comes everyone goes to whichever bunker is closest. No one gets burnt to a crisp.”

Maybe there are better ways he could’ve put it, but with a guy like Joseph most manipulative tactics aren’t going to work. No, Rook’s sticking to two concepts; Joseph wants his followers to survive the Collapse, and he doesn’t want to alienate Rook. Not now Rook’s ‘seeing the light’ and all that. The latter is more tenuous when Joseph could decide that since he’s been proven right he doesn’t have any use for Rook himself, but with the Gate, John, and Rook’s own flair for being an inconvenience as bargaining chips, things are looking more even than they ever have.

_“We’ll embrace any who wish to atone with open hearts,”_ Joseph says. _“I’ve always made this clear. But they must be ready for the world which will come after, and prove themselves worthy of it.”_

There’s that judgemental side. After their talk at the Veteran’s Center, Rook was wondering where it’d gone. “That isn’t the deal I’m offering. If people want to join you - willingly, without Bliss or threats or any other coercion - then sure, that’s their choice. But you’ve killed enough people in this county to know your chances of convincing their families and friends in time are pretty damn low, especially if the Collapse is gonna happen soon.”

_“It is.”_ The belief in Joseph’s voice is stronger than ever. _“You’ve seen the signs for yourself, haven’t you? A world on the brink, tipping closer to the edge with each passing day. An inevitability I have spent_ years _of my life preparing for. And you are no longer blind to what’s coming, yet you still cast me and my family as your enemy when this couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve only ever wished to help people-”_

“Didn’t God give people free will for a reason?” Rook interrupts, more bite to his tone than he intends. He glances to the windows. The darkness is a flat black, and he regrets not taking anyone with him to watch the area like Grace did earlier. He’d just prioritised having people at the Gate, and though Nick is watching the skies right now, they’re keeping the radios quiet unless a definite attack is incoming. That’ll have to be enough.

He’s calmer when he continues to speak. “I want people to get to choose, that’s it. If you want us to be on the same side, then you’re gonna have to compromise on that.” A faint, unamused chuckle escapes him. “Hell, if I’m willing to go back on promising I’d kill you, I think you can manage a concession like this.”

That certainty he’d had when picking out his gear to take with him to the compound…It’s changed now, shifted gears entirely. There’s more confusion now, an awareness that while he knows how to kill, _this_ is a much tougher operation. One that requires him to convince hundreds of people to stop fighting the cult which ruined their lives, and focus on surviving an apocalypse they don’t even believe in. And that’s if he can even manage an agreement with Joseph Seed and his fanatics.

Rook’s gonna need a long fucking sleep after this.

He sighs, leaning back into the couch. John’s a warm, quiet weight at his side, eyes closed but still conscious. At some point he’s managed to grab Rook’s hand and pull his arm from the back of the couch to around his shoulders, something distinctly possessive in the way John’s traces over the backs of Rook’s knuckles, glove tugged away. Once he sobers up John _probably_ isn’t gonna be too happy about all this. Better enjoy the peace for now.

“I just want the people I care about to live through this,” Rook admits, the honesty grating. He can imagine that John’s too messed up to pay attention right now, but Joseph’s listening to every word. “If we’re too busy fighting to get everyone ready to evacuate to the Gates…A lot of people will die, both mine and yours. I need them to be safe. Don’t- Don’t keep pushing, okay? Because at the end of the day, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to save my family.”

Even if it means destroying Joseph’s.

It wouldn’t be an easy decision. He’s…fuck, he’s absolutely wrapped up in the Seeds and all their bullshit. He likes the fuckers. And yeah, that isn’t all too unexpected - Rook’s never been great at keeping things impersonal - but it’s an annoying drag on his patchy conscience at times like this. Makes him willing to throw his lot into forming a deal with the Seeds rather than doing the sensible thing and killing them. He can come up with all the reasons he likes for going about it this way, but he knows himself. He knows what he’s capable of.

And because he knows that, he’s also aware that if it did get to the point where his family’s safety was in too much danger for him to justify his current actions…He can switch it all off. Put it all in that steel box and lock it tight so he can do what he has to. He’ll feel like shit afterwards, but Rook’s had a lot of practice in tuning that out.

_“You’re afraid,”_ Joseph observes, sounding as if he’s surprised by that fact. _“You worry that the steps you’ve taken won’t be enough. When you spoke with your friend and accepted the truth, you seemed…calm, and sure of yourself. But it was all an act, wasn’t it?”_

Rook remains silent. He isn’t scared of what’s coming. It seems- impossible, too much and too unreal. A hypothetical that always seemed kind of silly. Rook doesn’t have the capacity to really care about his own fate, whether he dies when the bombs fall or not.

But the people he considers his friends and family? He’s terrified for them. He needs them to live.

_“I understand the weight you’ve been burdened with more than anyone else ever could,”_ Joseph says. _“I understand your fear. Now, more than ever, is the time when we should be standing together as one, ready to survive this great calamity and rebuild in the Garden that God will create for us. You don’t need to fight me. And I don’t believe you want to, not now, when you’ve finally shed the ignorance you clung to.”_

“Think you can hold off on forcefully converting people until we get to this Garden of yours?” Getting through the next few years is what matters. If everything goes to shit once they leave the bunkers - he’ll deal with that when it happens.

Joseph is quiet for a moment. Rook doesn’t try to imagine what’s going on in his head. He’s always thought of himself as pretty decent at reading people, but Joseph? That man can be incredibly confusing, and only half of it is due to the religious mania he wields like a blade.

_“God has set many tests before me on the path to Eden. Tests of fortitude and persistence, of forgiveness and empathy. Tests of faith. Perhaps, this is a test of compassion.”_ His voice strengthens with each word, building to a steady certainty. Rook can imagine him standing in the church as he preaches to a devoted congregation, each word resounding through the space and demanding attention. Taking it, and refusing to let go. _“How could I cast aside those who seek reconciliation, finally stepping forward to meet the truth we’ve offered for so long?_ ”

Rook’s shoulders drop as tension he didn’t realise was there dissipates. That sounds a lot like an agreement in Joseph-speak. But he doesn’t believe for a single second that this concession won’t come without strings attached.

“I’ll talk to the Resistance,” Rook says, focusing on what’ll come next. “Make sure they’ll go along with the ceasefire. I-” He hesitates. Revealing any sort of weakness or uncertainty is a bad idea, but he also doesn’t want this agreement to fall apart in a day. “The people in Holland Valley and the Henbane, I can get them to listen. But I can’t make any guarantees for the Whitetail Militia. Not unless you give them back their people.”

For the ones caught up in the Bliss, he’ll have to work on that next. The Whitetails come first because out of every faction in Hope County, he’s had the least to do with them. They owe him for the ground they’ve gained - and pretty much for their current existence right now - but they’ve also saved his ass, and he doesn’t have the benefit of spending weeks with them like he does the Cougars. If anyone’s gonna object to this deal, it’s them.

_“Release the faithful you’re holding prisoner and I will ensure Jacob does the same.”_

“Uh-” He’d. Kind of forgotten about them. Wilfully, actually, because he’d wanted to focus on this discussion without getting distracted by how fucking confused he still was over the turncoat cultists. “They’re actually there voluntarily? I offered to drive them over to the compound and everything, but they’re…pretty resolute about sticking around.”

By the silence it’s clear Joseph doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. Join the club.

“I’ll get them to call if you need confirmation. It- well, I figure it’s a good chance to see whether everyone can get along enough to survive seven years in a bunker together.” Better to find out now than when they’re stuck in an enclosed space, with no way out that doesn’t involve radiation poisoning and a painful death.

_“I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with them.”_ It’s the first hint of uncertainty that Rook’s heard in Joseph’s voice. Definitely makes a change. Doesn’t last for long though, and when Joseph speaks next he’s back to that measured calm. _“We can discuss everything in further detail in person. Come alone to the compound tomorrow. You’ll be able to travel unimpeded.”_

So Joseph does have at least a single cautious bone in his body. “I’ll come the day after, ten o’clock on the dot. Gives us chance to see that both of us will keep to our word.” And a chance to check he can bank on the Resistance’s support. No point in making deals when they aren’t going to follow the terms.

_“You doubt my word even now?”_

“What can I say? I’ve got trust issues, and you haven’t exactly proven to be the most reliable guy.” Is he still bitter over the Bliss used on him in the Veteran’s Center? Hell yeah. Beheading Joseph’s statue can only help so much. He’d be tempted to delay it further if this wasn’t, y’know, a pretty urgent problem.

_“Then you’ll join the morning service before we talk.”_

“Sure, I can do that.” Waste of time but maybe it’ll make Joseph more amendable to whatever demands Rook comes up with by then. Because every part of this? He’s making it up as he goes, and hopefully giving the impression that he knows what he’s doing when really, Rook should _not_ be in charge of this sort of operation.

_“I’ll look forward to it,”_ Joseph says, sounding pleased that Rook didn’t fight him on this. Must make for a change of pace. _“Pass the phone to John? I’d like to check on my brother.”_

Honestly, Rook’s surprised he hasn’t asked before now. Must’ve been real sure that Rook hadn’t hurt him. As it is, John looks like he’s about to fall asleep, and it takes some shifting and several calls of his name to get him coherent enough to take the phone.

The one-sided conversation doesn’t make much sense - not helped by John getting distracted by the ballistic cloth of Rook’s shirt and describing it in detail to his brother - but eventually, John gets across that he’s fine, he doesn’t need Jacob storming in and raising a fuss, thank you very much, and that Joseph can stop worrying, it’ll give him more stress lines. He also hangs up and drops the phone onto the floor with a loud clatter.

Then it’s just Rook sitting there with a drunk, Blissed out John Seed slumped against his side, and the rising hope that maybe his plan is actually gonna work.


	30. Chapter 30

Getting John to the bedroom is an exercise in patience.

Rook’s just grateful they don’t have to tackle any stairs, because John’s lost any sense of coordination, knocking into the coffee table when Rook coaxes him into standing and lacking much in the way of coherency. By the point that John is muttering to himself about flowers and the colour green, Rook gives up on getting him walking and just picks John up.

He doesn’t weigh all that much, head lolling to rest near the crook of Rook’s neck, breath hot against his skin. John’s only reaction to being lifted is a low, warm laugh and a pleasantly surprised, “You’re strong.”

“Sure am,” Rook says, getting a secure grip under John’s knees and around his back before heading out into the hallway. If only the Resistance could see him now…Honestly, he’s got no clue how he’s maintained a sorta positive reputation with them for so long. Here’s to hoping it’ll be enough to stand up against anyone who protests his deal with Joseph.

Luckily, John’s reached the stage where he’s too tired to put up much of a fuss about being carried to bed, a limp weight in Rook’s arms. His ribs aren’t too pleased that he’s carrying a grown man, choosing now to remind him that hey, he cracked a couple only a few weeks ago.

The pain’s easy enough to bare, though, and soon he’s putting John down on the bed, a hand on John’s shoulder when he starts listing forward. “You gonna be alright?”

John’s eyes take a long moment to focus on him, but when they do a smile flashes across his face. “You spoke with Joseph, didn’t you? Did we agree?”

“Yeah, we agreed.” Kind of. Started to, anyway? Let him be optimistic and hope that everything will be smooth sailing from here on out, no sudden hiccups that’ll toss everything off course and leave Rook to deal with the sad, shattered remnants of another failed plan.

“Good.” John sighs heavily, more of his weight leaning into Rook’s hand until he’d tip off the bed if Rook wasn’t there. “You aren’t supposed to fight us. It’s- you’re supposed to be _with_ us.”

Rook doesn’t bother to argue that point, not when it’s clear the Seeds aren’t giving up on it. Joseph and John, at least. He’s betting Jacob will probably stab him the next time they meet, and honestly? The blunt hostility will be refreshing.

“Well, I’ll be with you in a couple of days. But for now I’ve gotta go.” He eyes John, a persistent sympathy holding him in place. John doesn’t look like he could fight off a fly right now, harmless in a way Rook’s never seen him, _shouldn’t_ be seeing him. He looks like the second Rook leaves, he’ll just collapse on the bed and - more than likely - wake up to some severe regrets in the morning.

So you can’t blame Rook for taking pity on him. Rook gets John upright and steady enough that he isn’t at risk of falling off the bed, then crouches down and starts on removing John’s stupidly expensive boots. Somehow, the leather is clean despite being out in rural Montana - never mind the daily torture sessions John wears them through. And the dips into rivers, that must ruin clothes fast.

“Think you can manage taking your belt off?” he asks, only a little teasing because hey, he knows the groggy pain of waking up in the middle of the night due to a cold metal buckle jabbing you in the gut.

The lack of answer has Rook glancing up - once he figures out the weirdass clasp thing the boots have got going on instead of just having laces, zips or velcro like sensible footwear - to see John staring at him with parted lips and Bliss-hazy confusion.

“What are you doing?”

Rook raises an eyebrow and lifts John’s ankle to pull the boot off. “Getting your shoes off, what’s it look like? Unless you want to go to sleep in them? Great way to ruin your bedsheets, and you can’t exactly buy more right now.”

No more buying anything at all, in fact, apart from guns and ammunition. The general store in Fall’s End donated all its goods to the town, rationed out by Mary May, and the other stores have all been raided by now. Rook hasn’t had any use for money in the past couple months, picking up what he needs from corpses, abandoned houses, and outposts. Looks like he never will have a use for money again. Bit of a waste of the accounts he’s got set up, but Denise will probably drain a couple on her way to Hope County, so at least they’re good for something.

“Why?” John’s fingers curl over Rook’s upper arms, digging into the material of his sleeves. “Why help me?”

Rook gets started on the other shoe. “You’d rather I leave you be?”

“Rook.” There’s something plaintive in John’s voice, confused and lost. It makes Rook decide to be honest - at least as honest as he gets.

“Because I want to.” He glances up at John, mouth crooked into a half-smile. “’Sides, it’s kinda my fault you’re too messed up to do it yourself. I can help you out at least this much before heading off.”

“You’re leaving,” John says as Rook pulls off the other boot. His brow furrows and lips draw in a tight, displeased frown. With an unexpected strength he tugs Rook closer, unbalancing Rook and sending him to his knees between John’s legs. Rook catches himself before he falls right into John, hands on John’s thighs.

The Bliss gives John’s eyes a feverish shine, focus snapping abruptly into place and demanding Rook’s attention. “You can’t leave. I did enough, didn’t I? I did what you asked, I stopped, I listened to you- I gambled the lives of my _family_ for you.” His hand curves over the back of Rook’s neck, fingernails digging into his skin. “I had faith in you. Was it misplaced?”

“No,” Rook says, and lets John hold him in place. “If this goes how I’m hoping, we’ll all live through the Collapse. No need for anyone else to die.”

He can’t promise more than that. Can’t predict what will come after, when they’re all competing to live in a world devastated by the bombs. Better to make sure they live to the point where they can worry about that rather than try planning for it now.

“But you’re still leaving. Still- _resisting.”_ John holds him tighter, grip on the verge of being painful. It has Rook suppressing a shiver. John’s other hand lifts, curves over Rook’s jaw as his eyes flicker across Rook’s face, tracing his features with an intensity the Bliss and alcohol can’t quite dim. Whatever he took, the lazy contentment has ebbed away in place of something else. Not fully coherent but- aware.

“You don’t need to. We’re on the same side now, you aren’t _blind_ anymore. Why would you want to leave when your rightful place is with us?”

Rook grasps John’s forearm, but he doesn’t force him away. Just holds his arm and watches how John’s breath shudders and his eyes flicker closed for a brief moment.

“We’ve all got our roles to play, right? Mine might’ve shifted a bit, but there’s still a lot up in the air.” How much of this is getting through to John, that he’ll remember in the morning, Rook doesn’t have a clue. But it’d be…cruel, to ignore the desperation and need wired through every inch of John. “I’ll be back, alright? At the compound the day after tomorrow.”

There to figure out how the fuck things will proceed from here. Just imagining what Joseph might come up with after two days gives Rook a headache. He’s got no more cards to play here, having to trust that his control over a Gate and the promise of the Resistance’s compliance will be enough. Not like he can use John’s safety as an incentive again, especially since it looks like no one actually believes he’d hurt him.

For good reason, maybe, but Rook doesn’t like admitting that.

“Stay.” John leans in to rest his forehead against Rook’s, an affectionate gesture that’s become confusingly familiar. There’s a foreign softness to John’s gaze, so close that it’s impossible to escape for all that his grasp on Rook’s neck has loosened, turned gentle as the pads of his finger brush lightly where they’d once pressed tight.

Could put it down to the Bliss but it feels like more than that. More than the desire Rook had recognised in him earlier.

And Rook’s tempted, just for a moment, to agree. To give John that _yes_ he’s always asking for. To stay and let something be _easy_ for once, give in without the struggle he’s always drawn into and unable to resist. Stay, knowing he doesn’t have to convince John of what’s coming, doesn’t have to figure out a way to ensure he’s prepared because John and his family already are. Stay, and find out just what the softness in John’s eyes and touch could mean.

“I can’t,” he murmurs, regretful. He goes to draw back when John - once again - manages to surprise him.

John tips Rook’s head up and kisses him.

The press of his mouth against Rook’s is light, almost hesitant. Lips soft where Rook’s own are chapped, and the gentle pressure increases when Rook doesn’t pull away, John’s eyes closing and his fingers shifting up from Rook’s neck to bury themselves in his hair.

It drags a sound from low in his throat, small and barely audible.

Breaking the kiss is- difficult, reluctance slowing his response once the surprise loosens its hold. He catches John’s hands and draws them down, sees the dejection and hurt in John’s face and tries not to let it affect him.

Shit. There’s a hell of a difference between using John’s attraction against him and whatever _this_ is. A line like that, with someone like John - Rook wouldn’t do that to him.

“You’re drunk,” he says, and okay, that’s a start. “And high, and you’ll probably regret this when you wake up. So you’re gonna go to sleep, and I’ll see you in a couple of days, alright?”

He doesn’t give John chance to respond, getting to his feet and leaving the room, pretending he doesn’t hear the call of his name. Pretending he isn’t blatantly fleeing.

He goes to the living space and brings up his radio, flicking through the frequencies as he watches the area visible through the large windows. More chatter now, cultists realising what’s happened and- there it is, orders not to engage with the locals and to focus their efforts on stripping the properties they already have control over.

A heavy sigh of relief escapes him. Alright, that’s one thing going his way. It also means that cultists are being sent to John’s ranch, but he’s got a few minutes before they arrive. More than enough time.

Rook heads into the kitchen and finds some painkillers after a quick search. He picks up a washing up bowl that’ll do when a bucket can’t be found, the trashcan in the kitchen too big and the one in John’s room some wicker basket thing that won’t be much good. After filling up a cup with water, Rook steps hesitantly into the bedroom.

His caution is unnecessary; in the brief time he’s been away, John’s curled up on the bed and is out like a light. Rook sets down the painkillers and cup on the bedside table, the bowl left on the floor in easy reach, and moves the boots out of the way so John won’t trip on them. Then he hesitates before quickly unbuckling John’s belt, thumb unintentionally brushing against the warm skin of John’s hip before he gets the belt off completely, leaving it on the bedside table.

And that’s more than enough time spent in John’s bedroom.

But it won’t hurt to get John under the sheets, right? The building is unreasonably warm considering the time of year - and it must cost a hell of a lot to keep this place heated during winter with all the wide-open spaces and windows everywhere - but waking up cold sucks. Besides, it doesn’t take long to lift up one side of the sheets and carefully shift John under them, and he doesn’t show even the slightest sign of stirring despite the manhandling.

Rook also pauses in the living area to sweep up the shattered glass scattered over the floor - it only takes, like, a minute, and John could step on it if he comes in here without shoes on - and throw the pieces in the trash.

_Now,_ Rook can leave.

He shoots a quick text to Joseph as he goes, using his own phone this time to warn him that John’s sleeping and to keep his people from waking him. Whether Joseph listens is out of Rook’s hands. John seemed dead to the world so he probably won’t react to the sudden appearance of his guards, but seeing him in this state maybe wouldn’t really be great for the awed regard the cultists hold for their heralds. Rook can’t imagine John being happy with it either.

He’s half-way back to the Gate when the radio chirps with the guards’ arrival, and Rook switches back to the open frequency he favours. His fingers tap restlessly against the wheel and he absolutely doesn’t think about kissing John Seed.

Damn it.

* * *

The last time Rook saw Hudson she was tied up and terrified, screams muffled by the tape slapped across her mouth. Her cheeks are gaunter now, and the terror has worn down to an exhausted tension, Staci close to her side with a similarly new edge to him as they talk quietly.

They’re in the mess hall of the bunker, Resistance members and locals - if there’s much of a difference anymore - filling the space as they celebrate their victory. Mary May’s brought up what looks like her entire bar’s worth of alcohol and despite the late hour no one looks like they’re keen to pack it in just yet.

They’ve got guards on watch up top, Whitehorse now back at the jail in case of retaliation, and there are people keeping an eye on Fall’s End. Despite all that - as well as being in a bunker that recently belonged to their enemy - the atmosphere is relaxed. Cheery, even, because this is one hell of a step to fighting back against the cult even if most won’t see this for the safety it’ll guarantee them in the future.

Rook expected Hudson to get away from this place as soon as she could. She was tortured here, trapped for months in John’s care, and if Rook’s getting twitchy from being underground then it’s got to be worse for her. But apparently she decided to stick around and make sure it was secured, now keeping to the corner of the room near the exit.

Jerome told him that they’ve been keeping her away from the cultists locked up in the make-shift cells. Probably for the best. Rook went by himself earlier, making sure the cultists (kids and babies and pregnant women, fuck) were alright. Because hell, he didn’t have enough responsibilities already, did he?

He didn’t let himself feel the frustration and confusion for long, pushed past it and didn’t think too hard on how incredibly relieved they looked to see him when he stopped by each cell, promising that they’d sort out better accommodation as soon as things weren’t so uncertain and tense.

One of the older women ended up taking the call with Joseph. Her hand shook when she took the phone, and he gave her the most reassuring smile he could manage. It seemed to settle her, put a bit of resoluteness in the set of her shoulders, and he’d taken a step back to give the illusion of privacy for the call.

He got the gist of it from the one-sided conversation. More of what they’d said to him earlier, and a quiet but stubborn insistence that Rook is a herald in his own right. A belief that Joseph doesn’t seem to be trying to dissuade her from.

Which was- okay. Rook could do without that, and some part of him was hoping that speaking with Joseph would have the cultists running back to their Father, especially after being kept in the cells formerly used to hold sinners. But because life can never be as straightforward as that, it looks like they’ve doubled down on their belief that they’re supposed to…follow Rook.

Cool.

Up in the mess hall he can squash all that up into a box labelled ‘Problems for Future Rook’. Right now, he’s gonna drink his lemonade and listen to Sharky tell him all about setting the Bliss fields aflame, admittedly jealous that he didn’t get to join in on that.

Hurk joins them, then Grace, and then their table is filled up with people who’ve spent the last few months following Rook across the county. Nick slaps Rook hard on the back and squeezes into the space beside him, saying that Kim wishes she could be here but it’s too late to keep Carmina up, and Nick can’t stay for long himself. He extracts a promise from Rook to visit in the morning - bright and early, and he’s gonna be dead on his feet but it’s been too long since he last saw his goddaughter, so he agrees without hesitation.

Everyone seems to be making a deliberate effort to keep conversation light, no one focusing on what’s coming or the deal Rook’s sorting out with the cult. Instead, Hurk and Sharky are competing to see who can get drunk fastest and still bounce a bottle cap into a plastic cup at the end of the table, while Jess and Grace have a quiet but heated debate over guns versus bows, and Adelaide slings increasingly flirty comments at Mary May only to be matched with a repertoire of pick up lines that’d have Denise crowing in delight.

Someone brought Boomer up, his head propped up on Rook’s knee where he’s sat under the table, tail swishing slowly back and forth over the floor. Rook scratches behind his ear and passes him a bit of the bacon someone decided to fry up at - he checks his watch - three o’clock in the morning, and feels something in him settle.

Here, surrounded by the people he’s claimed as his own with the knowledge that he’s one step closer to making sure they survive this, he thinks…he thinks it might all work out.

* * *

Waking up at eight o’clock is difficult when every muscle in his body - hell, bones and organs too - is screaming for him to stay in bed.

It isn’t even a fancy bed. Just one of the bunk beds that fill up this section of the Gate, mattress and pillow thin but considering his accommodations over the past three months - trees, the ground, abandoned buildings and a jail cell - it’s pretty decent.

But while Rook might be a morning person, and one used to going without much sleep, he’s also fucking exhausted from- everything. Being a highly trained killing machine can only go so far, and it’s been…a lot.

Still, he gets himself up, muffles a yawn into his palm and takes care not to wake anyone else. Sharky took the bunk above him, snoring heavily and an arm hanging over the frame, still somehow clutching a beer bottle. Rook carefully takes it and sets it down on a nearby crate. Glass shattering wouldn’t be the best way to wake up a room full of jumpy gunmen.

He’s almost at the open doorway when Boomer trots over to him, abandoning the pile of blankets he’d made his bed in.

Rook smiles and leans down to pat Boomer’s head. “You coming with me?” he asks softly, heading down the corridor with Boomer at his side. He isn’t gonna object to the company, especially when he’s been leaving Boomer with the others so often lately. Makes him feel guilty for being a shit owner, and after those weeks he spent with just Boomer, Peaches and Cheeseburger for company, he isn’t used to being without at least one of them.

A hunt around the large pantry close by the mess hall nets him some dog food, the tin one of a big stack packed away in a corner. Must be for the guard dogs the cult has, though he prefers the thought of them loving their pets enough to make sure the bunkers have dog food.

He greets the guards scattered throughout the bunker, receiving tired smiles and pausing occasionally when they want to talk. There are questions about what comes next, about the (sort of) defected cultists and if the ceasefire is genuine or just a tactic to get the Project’s guard down.

It gets tiring to keep explaining over and over that yeah, the end of the world really is coming, and no, he hasn’t bought into Joseph’s brand of crazy, he’s just received information from the outside - and have you been listening to the radio lately? Isn’t so insane to imagine bombs dropping if you take that into account.

At least they seem to believe him. With any luck, they’ll spread what he said onto the rest of the Resistance so he won’t have to keep repeating himself. And if any aren’t too happy with the new direction, well, he’ll deal with that when the times comes.

The drive to the Ryes’ place is quiet, roads clear of the usual trucks chasing after him or ferrying prisoners though the valley. Less planes out too, the few he spots paying him no mind. Looks like this ceasefire might be holding up so far. Huzzah.

Rook would feel happier about it all if he wasn’t dealing with the persistent certainty that it’s about as stable as a house of cards in an earthquake.

Kim answers the door with a smile on her face and Carmina cradled in her arms. His goddaughter still looks so damn tiny, big brown eyes staring up at him when Kim hands her over without hesitation. He sits on the couch with her, a wide smile pulling at his mouth when she grasps his finger in a surprisingly strong grip, and listens to Kim moving around the kitchen as she puts together some breakfast for the both of them.

“Nick’s still sleeping,” she says quietly. “Came in so late last night I doubt he’ll be up any time soon.”

Kim’s voice makes Carmina wiggle in his hold, and he obligingly tilts her up so she can see her mom. He isn’t sure how good baby’s eyes are at only a few weeks old so his efforts might be for nothing, but it has Carmina giving a gummy smile, feet jerking inside the yellow onesie.

“Sorry for keeping him.”

“Don’t you be apologising for him. You’re up and about while he’s still lazing around in bed.”

Carmina’s fist knocks into his jaw, trying to grasp onto something. He carefully tugs her hand down before she goes for his hair, head tilted to meet her surprised stare. He pulls a face that has her gurgling happily at him. Boomer’s ears flick forward at the sound, settled now at Rook’s feet after an exploration of the living room. “I’m a morning person. Anyway, I’m used to being sleep deprived.”

Once Kim hears that she insists on him having a nap. He lays back with Carmina sprawled over his chest, content to chew on his shirt as he keeps a hand over her so she doesn’t go rolling off. She barely weighs anything at all, and even now after seeing her a few times, he still worries that he’ll hurt her by accident.

Maybe overcompensates by being gentler than needed, hyperaware of every little sound of distress or shift of her small body. According to Nick it makes him a great nanny, and he’s already wrangled a promise from Rook to be available for the date nights the Ryes plan to go on once this is over.

It’s nice to imagine. A life where Rook really did settle down, maybe got a house nearby with enough land for Boomer, Peaches and Cheeseburger to roam around on (in the hypothetical scenario where he’s allowed to keep a bear as a pet). Still a deputy to give him something to do, back to handing out speeding tickets and answering noise complaints, maybe the occasional bar brawl or spot of arson from the resident pyromaniac. Barbecues every other Saturday at the Ryes, drinks at the Spread Eagle, hunting trips with Jess that don’t involve picking off cultists in a competition over who can manage the farthest shot. Getting to see Carmina grow up, and learning how to be a person she can rely on.

Can’t say he’s ever really experienced peace like that.

He’d hate it. Rook was born for conflict. He’ll always seek it out, find his way to it, because at the core of him? He needs it. Needs to push himself to the edge, over and over again, knowing he’ll never be satisfied but doing it anyway. Needs to feel alive in a way that so few things manage to make him feel anymore.

But he can imagine a world where he isn’t who he is now, where he’s someone better, and maybe that’s enough.


	31. Chapter 31

Rook drifts for a while, not quite asleep but close, lingering in that soft, relaxed place where he isn’t so aware of his surroundings. He can dim the persistent need to know about everything happening nearby now that he’s somewhere safe. He only realises time has passed when Kim calls his name.

Groggy, he lifts heavy eyelids and shifts a little. The movement sends Carmina wiggling. She’s too young yet to really move or get herself upright, but she makes a valiant attempt. When her brow furrows in a warning sign for future tears, he sits and moves her into the crook of his elbow, bouncing her lightly.

“No crying today, not from little ‘Mina.” He exaggerates each word, long and cooing. It catches her attention, eyes going wide with fascination when he talks. The previous visits to the Ryes taught him she likes his voice, and it’s been a great way to calm her down from fussing. “You’re a good girl, right? No crying when your dad’s trying to sleep, because he’s a silly, silly man who had a little too much to drink, and he’ll be all grumpy if he wakes up now.”

He leans in and lets her grab his nose, and she burbles happily. “We don’t want that, now do we?” he asks, nasal and apparently funny enough to have her making a squeaky sound he decides is a laugh. It’s adorable, just like everything else she does. He shakes his head slowly, not enough to dislodge her grip, and can’t suppress a beaming smile. “No, we don’t.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Kim observes, clearly amused.

She’s holding a plate out to him, evidently already eaten her own breakfast. Sausages and eggs, and toast that’s burnt at the edges. Rook’s stomach twists and growls, a handy reminder that he hasn’t eaten yet. Not since some time yesterday. Been too busy, too distracted, and eating hasn’t been a priority.

“Oh, absolutely.”

He won’t even try to deny that he’s hopelessly attached to Carmina. Hell, a similar sentiment could apply to all the Ryes. He never had much hope of stopping those attachments from latching onto him, not after those few days he spent here recovering from Jacob’s first round of brainwashing. Not after they trusted him with the responsibility of being Carmina’s godfather, inviting him into their little family with an ease he doesn’t deserve. He’ll do his best to deserve it now.

Gently tugging Carmina’s little hands away from his nose, he hands her over to Kim and receives the plate in return. Kim settles down beside him, and it’s easy, being here. Chatting with Kim about how Carmina’s been, how Kim and Nick are adjusting to being parents, what the baby books got right and what they’ve had to figure out for themselves. They’ve been lucky; Carmina’s a good baby, sleeps a lot and isn’t too fussy, barely cries except when she needs something.

Or for attention from her godfather, Kim adds wryly when Carmina starts whining, and Rook hastily makes room for Carmina to sit on his lap while keeping the plate from her grabby reach. Isn’t easy, but Carmina seems happy to slump back against his chest and stare up at him, gnawing away on the fluffy wing of the toy owl he brought her a couple of weeks ago.

Hey, there might be no shops open anymore, but like hell he wasn’t gonna scavenge some presents for his goddaughter. One general store in the Henbane hadn’t been ransacked completely, and he’d found this little guy in a box of toys in the backroom. It reminded him of a toy he had as a kid, a robin he adored and carried around practically his entire childhood. Least until dear old dad decided he was too old for baby toys, anyway.

Carmina’s fast asleep by the time Nick comes down the stairs. He clutches at the bannister and makes a beeline for the painkillers left out by the sink.

“Fuck you,” he says the second he notices Rook smirking, eyes bleary and half-lidded as he points accusingly at him. “You- fuckin’ no alcohol, t’hell with that. Gonna get you smashed and see how you like it, asshole.”

“Hey, I had nothing to do with you trying to drink Adelaide under the table.”

Nick looks to Kim for help, but she just raises her eyebrows in silent judgement.

“Lady can drink a lot, okay?”

“Which is why you better have gotten a lift home last night,” Kim says, a hard glint to her eyes that’s betrayed by the amused curve of her mouth. On the list of dangerous shit they do on a daily basis, drunk driving isn’t really up there. Or drunk flying, in this case.

“Oh, definitely. Definitely did. Yup.”

Taking pity on Nick, Rook hands Carmina over to him - watches his face go all gooey and soft the moment his daughter is in his arms - and heads into the kitchen to take care of the dishes. Being here, in the Ryes’ kitchen…it’s a long way from the rest of the shit going on right now. A whole world away.

He glances down at the radio on his belt. It’s turned off, but the airwaves are surely blasting with chatter. By now most people in the county will know about the deal. Joseph’s people will follow along with it - their fanatic worship of him guarantees that much - but the Resistance? Fuck if Rook knows whether they’ll listen.

The Cougars and Fall’s End…Yeah, he’s pretty sure he’s got their cooperation on this. Done too much for them to have them bail now. That’s the issue with everyone making him the fucked up linchpin of Hope County; they’ve got to listen to him even if they don’t fully believe in the threat that’s coming.

The Whitetails, though? Ideally, getting their people back will do something in the way of convincing them. But thinking of Barnes gleefully torturing Chosen, Eli’s hatred of Jacob, all the people they’ve lost to the Judges and Jacob’s obsession with culling the herd…

That’s gonna take more time and patience than Rook has. Best he’s hoping for is that they’ll stick to a ceasefire, if only to build up their own supplies and give themselves chance to recover. It’d be the smart thing to do. Then, if the bombs drop before they get the chance to attack - that’d be the ideal. Here’s to hoping his luck holds out long enough.

Boomer huffs out a quiet bark and leans against his leg, dragging Rook’s attention away from his thoughts. He realises he’s been cleaning the same plate for the past few minutes and sets it down, dragging his fingers through Boomer’s fur.

“No point worrying about it, huh?” Got no option but to wait and see. Dutch will tell him if anything is gonna happen with the Whitetails, and that’ll have to be enough.

Boomer’s tongue lolls out in response, and he eagerly noses at Rook’s hand in demand for more petting. At least that’s something he can do without overthinking it.

Nick comes over to pass him his plate once he’s done with his own breakfast. He lingers beside him, helping with drying the pans and plates, a light tension to his frame that lets Rook know he’s got something to say. Rook waits patiently, finishes up with the last piece of cutlery and lets Nick gather his thoughts.

“You really think the end of the world’s comin’?” Nick’s voice isn’t incredulous like Rook would expect it to be. Instead, Nick’s quiet and uncertain, a tamped down fear catching at his words.

“It is.” Same conversation Rook’s had so many times now, but he’s willing to keep repeating it as long as it means they’ll be prepared. The Ryes- he needs them to listen, to be willing to get themselves to safety on his word alone. All this effort to sort out a deal and get a bunker, it’s for people like the Ryes. “Bombs are due to drop any time now. Might be in a month, might be tomorrow. But they’re coming.”

He wishes he knew an exact date. Denise wasn’t specific, just making it clear that it’ll be soon. If people are already moving to bunkers and taking other precautions, and Denise’s contacts are warning her to do the same, then there’s got to be a high enough chance that it needs to be treated like it’s inevitable. He’s making the assumption that there’ll be at least a few days, but there’s no guarantee.

(No guarantee that Denise and the others will get here in time. No guarantee he hasn’t made a mistake by deciding to stay in Hope County instead of going to them.)

“Shit.” Nick twists the towel in his hands, and looks over his shoulder where Kim’s feeding Carmina. “Shit,” he curses again, shoulders dropping. “That fucker was right all along?”

No questioning who he’s referring to. “Right about this, at least.”

How Joseph knew, if he really did see this coming in a vision…Fuck, Rook doesn’t have a clue where to start with that. Means he should’ve been listening all along, and while Rook isn’t one for regrets, maybe he should’ve given Joseph’s brand of crazy a shot earlier on. Doesn’t mean that Joseph went about all this in the right way, of course - he’s sticking by his initial assessment that Joseph was doing a shit job of handling the takeover, that it’d only ever end in him getting shot once someone had enough of him.

But if that Voice of his led him here, had him spend years preparing for the end…If Rook had never received that call from Denise, and left them defenceless when the bombs did fall because destroying the bunkers was always on the cards, always gonna happen once he was through with each sibling…They’d be dead. Everyone he cares about unprepared for the bombs falling.

A sardonic smile slides across his face, tight and too sharp for the easy calm of the Ryes home. Seems he’s got good reason to be grateful to Joseph. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna make things easy for him, but maybe he’ll forgive some of the Bliss bullshit he’s been put through. Water under the bridge and all.

“This deal you’re sortin’ out - y’think it’ll work? I can’t see the peggies stickin’ to it for long, ‘specially John.” Nick snorts. “Bet he’s spittin’ mad ‘bout us stealin’ that bunker of his. Serves him right for takin’ the Carmina.”

John’s probably mad, alright, but maybe not about that. At least, not _just_ that.

“Speaking of.” Rook raises his eyebrows at Nick, pushing aside any thoughts of John (now really isn’t the time, and if there _is_ a time - he doesn’t know. Too many things to focus on right now to add another to the list, even as his mind keeps getting dragged back to the subject). “Still can’t believe you named your kid after a _plane._ What happened to the list of baby names?”

“I threw it in the trash,” Kim informs him, leaning against the kitchen counter. Carmina’s sound asleep again after being fed and changed, now in a blue onesie that says _Number 1 Pilot!_ in bold print.

“What’s wrong with namin’ her after the Carmina?” Nick’s brow furrows in offence. “It’s a great name! Tonnes of history behind it - and hey, look who’s talkin’. What kinda name is _Rook,_ anyway?”

Rook shrugs. “My mom liked chess a lot,” he says, ignores the ache that builds in his chest at just the mention of her. It’s an easy memory, quick to rise as soon as he thinks of it. Sitting at the dinner table with that chessboard between them, the one her dad used to play with her, just like she did with him. The only bit of her past she ever shared with him, telling him all the rules and having him treat the chess pieces with utmost care.

He wasn’t great at chess. Too impatient, always on the offence, and easily distracted. But he made the effort for her. Brought it out on her good days and moved the pieces for her when her hands cramped up. Collected it up and kept it hidden and out of sight on the bad days.

“You never talk about your family much,” Kim says carefully. “Have you been able to get a message to them?”

Rook musters a small smile. “No need. They died a long time ago. But I’ve got a few friends, and with any luck they’ll get here soon.”

Another thing he needs to negotiate with the Seeds so they don’t get shot out of the sky on the way in. Equipment drop off is one thing. Landing, however? That’ll draw more attention, and Rook would like to avoid having a dogfight in the skies with his track record of crashing planes. Gonna be a fun meeting tomorrow.

Kim frowns and steps closer, laying a hand on his forearm. “You look exhausted,” she observes, a gentle sympathy in her eyes. Rook has no idea what to do with it. Emotional incompetence, him? No way.

“Busy few days.” Busy is one word for it. Any hope of the situation calming down soon is unlikely, too. Hell, maybe when the bombs drop he’ll actually be better off - it’ll give him a chance to sleep at least. “And not everyone’s gonna be happy with what I’m doing. Gives a guy plenty to be thinking about.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Nick declares. “We’ve got your back on this. Me, Kim and Carmina. Won’t hear any complaints from us.”

A faint chuckle escapes Rook. “Even if I ask you to move into the bunker?”

Nick grimaces, looking like he’s sucking on a lemon. “Do we have to?”

Kim shoots him a glare and squeezes Rook’s arm. “If that’s what it takes to get through this, we’ll move in today,” she says, resolute. “Anything to keep Carmina safe.”

“She will be,” Rook assures her, relief building in his chest that he won’t have to fight them on this. “They’ve got supplies there for babies, anything you could need to keep her healthy. If you really mean it - that you’ll move in as soon as possible - I’ll make sure there’s a room ready for you. Just-” He hesitates, more desperation in his voice than he intends to reveal. “Don’t wait too long, okay? I know you’re close here but I’ve got no clue what could go wrong, a bomb could drop _today,_ and I need you to be safe. Please.”

They can’t die. He won’t let them die. They’ve his friends, his family now, and he won’t let anything happen to them. But he needs them to agree because he can’t force them into this (can’t do this alone). And he gets that they stayed in Hope County in the first place to defend their home, but there’s no defending it against a bomb, _nothing_ they can do now to fight this.

(When will it happen? How long? Denise wasn’t clear, didn’t know, and now they’re in the agonising purgatory of waiting for it to happen. No certainty or awareness of what’s going on, and that makes it so much harder to plan for, to get ready in time just hoping people will trust in Rook’s word alone. What if it isn’t enough? If _he_ isn’t enough?

What if he fails and the people he cares about die because of it?)

“Hey.” Nick’s hand clasps his shoulder and he moves to stand in front of Rook, face uncharacteristically serious. “It’s alright. How ‘bout you help us pack up and we’ll see about movin’ in t’that room you’ve promised. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Rook breathes out shakily, tries for a smile and hopes it looks more certain than he feels. More stable. “Yeah, that’d be- that’d be real good.”

“Awesome.” Nick drags him in for a hug, one he returns after a moment of hesitation, shaking off the tense stillness that sets into his muscles. “Don’t know if anyone else has said this yet, but you’re doin’ great. Can’t think of anyone else who coulda pulled this off.” The hug tightens and Nick’s voice lowers, sincere and warm. “Thanks for lookin’ out for my family.”

“I- of course, Nick.” Rook’s jaw works as he struggles for a response, mouth abruptly dry. “Wouldn’t let anything happen to them. You too. Butch and Sundance, right?” Hopefully with a better ending in store than a firing squad.

Nick draws back and grins at him. “Exactly.”

* * *

Three hours later, the Ryes are heading to the bunker and Rook feels a lot calmer. Settled, especially compared to how he has been recently. Seems like it’s just been one hit after another, rattling him and making it harder to deal with the next. He can be as good at adapting as he likes, but he’ll admit to struggling with this one.

Knowing the Ryes have listened to him and are gonna be safe? It clears his head like nothing else.

So when he enters the Wolf’s Den, there isn’t a hint of hesitation despite the militia’s less than enthusiastic response. Plenty of glares and looks of betrayal, a couple turning away in disgust, and none of it matters. They don’t move to stop him and that’s all he needs from them.

Eli is waiting in his little command centre, watching the assortment of screens he’s got set up to monitor the mountains, radio crackling with the occasional call from scouts. Eli’s lips press in a tight line when he sees Rook. “Never thought you’d buy into the peggie’s bullshit.”

“I haven’t.” Rook doesn’t show his usual light friendliness, the smile and shifts to his body language that broadcasts he isn’t a threat. That isn’t what’s needed right now. No, Eli needs to see he isn’t playing around here. That he won’t let Eli’s people fuck this up. “But when I get new information, I pay attention to it. Especially when that info concerns nuclear bombs.”

“And I’m just- what, supposed to trust this friend of yours knows what they’re talkin’ about? Funny how you never mentioned bein’ able to chat with people on the outside before now. Real convenient.”

Fair. “Does it matter now? Eli, you built a fucking bunker. You can’t tell me a nuclear war sounds impossible.”

“It does when you’re askin’ me to make nice with the peggies.” Eli’s mouth twists into a scowl as he takes a step closer. Not threatening, not really. Too restrained for that, voice low and harsh. And the two of them haven’t ever been friends, but they’ve been allies, and that must mean something to Eli - otherwise he never would’ve let Rook inside.

“You’ve seen what they’ve done to us, Dep. Takin’ our people, killing them or worse. Locking them in cages to starve, turnin’ them against friends and family - you expecting me to forgive all that?”

“No.” Rook stares back steadily, keeps his impatience tightly controlled. Eli’s points are all good ones. Understandable. But Rook’s on a time limit here, ticking away at the back of his mind, so he can’t pull any punches. “I expect you to care more about the living than you do the dead.” Eli flinches, just a little, and Rook doesn’t stop. “If we keep on fighting the peggies, we’ll all die. Everyone here is in danger and the only way to survive this is to-”

“Make a deal with Joseph Seed?” Eli scoffs, incredulous. “They won’t respect a ceasefire. They’ll use it against us, see we’re complacent and take back every bit of ground we’ve fought for. The second we let our guards down, Jacob’s men will be on us.”

“Then don’t be complacent. Shit, Eli, I ain’t telling you to throw away your guns.” Rook sure as hell won’t be getting rid of his, and the Resistance are all getting acquainted with the bunker’s armoury. “We’ll be ready if the peggies break the deal, don’t worry about that. But so far they’re sticking to it, right? And you got your people back like Joseph promised.”

“People broken by Jacob’s trials.” Eli closes his eyes wearily, breathing out a heavy sigh. “People I’m supposed to tell we’re gonna do nothin’ against the monsters who tortured them.”

And there it is. A crack in Eli’s certainty, because he’s listening to Rook. Isn’t denying that the bombs will drop - no, it’s the deal with the Seeds he has a problem with. And Rook can work with that.

“Tell them whatever you need to,” he says, letting some sympathy show. Empathy, even, because yeah, he gets how those Whitetails will be feeling. Can’t say he’s entirely happy with letting Jacob off with nothing more than some light stabbing, but- priorities. “Just keep your people from attacking the peggies for a few weeks, that’s all I’m asking. Say you’re taking advantage of the ceasefire to get ready for a big assault or something.”

“You want me to lie to them,” Eli says flatly.

A hint of frustration creeps into Rook’s voice. Just a little, and he doesn’t bother suppressing it. Not all of it. “I want you to help me _save_ them. A ceasefire means we can prepare and get everyone ready to move to the bunkers instead of losing more people against the cult. We still need supplies, and we’ve gotta organise people so we’ll have warning when the bombs drop and can get them to a safe place in time. You telling me revenge is more important than their lives?”

Eli shakes his head. “You don’t get it. Hope County ain’t your home. You didn’t grow up here, weren’t there when the Seeds and their damn cult showed up actin’ like they were good people. You didn’t see the shit they pulled over the years, the lives they ruined even before they started killin’ us. Don’t fall into the trap of trustin’ them, Dep. It’ll get you worse than Jacob’s trials ever could.”

“Trust has got nothing to do with this.”

Rook glances at one of the monitors showing the Veteran’s Centre. It’s a blurry picture, the camera set up way up the hill, giving a poor view of the place. Just seeing it has heat curling in his gut, warmed by the memory of how _satisfying_ it felt to drive that knife into Jacob’s shoulder. Not his original target, no, but at least he’d left his mark.

“They’ll keep to their word,” he says, an even certainty colouring his tone. Joseph’s got Rook’s belief now, just like he wanted. And still he wants more. Too invested, the same as John is (same as Rook). Joseph won’t go back on it now, not when things are finally going his way. “Doesn’t mean it has to last forever.” He gives Eli a grim smile. “I’m seeing them tomorrow to negotiate further, see about getting us access to the other bunkers when the evacuation starts. Play along with this and I’m sure you’ll get plenty of valuable intel out of it, if nothing else.”

Eli doesn’t immediately object, clearly thinking over the potential advantages and weighing it against the risks. “If you’re goin’ into peggie territory they could take you out.”

Rook chuckles. “If they were gonna do that I think I’d be dead by now. ‘Sides, I think I’ve proven I can handle myself.” Ignoring a few hiccups along the way, and hey, at least one or two had been deliberate on his part. “Don’t you have any faith in me?”

“Too much faith, maybe,” Eli mutters. Then he clears his throat and straightens up, coming to a decision. “I’ll follow your lead for now. No one’s gonna be happy about it, but I can keep my people from goin’ after the peggies for a short while, concentrate on recovery. You come through on that intel, and we’ll see about the long-term.”

Thank fuck.

Rook doesn’t outstay his welcome after that. Still got things to do before tomorrow, and travelling to the Den took up a chunk of that time. Getting the engine going in his truck, he drags a hand through his hair and pushes back the lingering exhaustion biting at his heels.

That’s every faction sorted. The Ryes are in John’s Gate - the Resistance’s Gate? Rook’s Gate? - and the ceasefire is holding so far. No reports of cultists using the opportunity to reclaim former outposts or launch an attack, everything unnaturally quiet in Hope County. Hell, he barely hears any gunfire on the drive back south, which is more unnerving than anything else. It’s as much a feature as the wide blue skies and white-tipped mountains.

Whole new era for Hope County, huh? If everything goes to plan, maybe he’ll survive it.

* * *

The Gate is a hub of activity by the time he gets back.

Most of Fall’s End is in the process of moving up here, trucks and cars parked up on the road leading to the bunker, people running around with suitcases and crates. He spots a few carrying cases of alcohol, another guy with a huge stack of comic books, and inside the bunker someone’s already made a start on cleaning the place up. No cult flags and shrines to Joseph, and the words painted on the walls - _WE LOVE ALL OF YOU_ \- have been spray-painted over in a stark red.

Grace and Jess ambush him at the formerly sealed down. He gets enough time to register them approaching - Jess with a scowl, Grace a determined furrow to her brow - before they’re dragging him down to the mess hall, heedless to his protests that he hasn’t got time to eat.

“Make time,” Jess all but snarls, and he shuts up. Partially because he thought she’d be pissed off at him for, y’know, dropping his attack on the Seeds in favour of bunker acquisition with only a second-hand explanation to Jess herself.

Seems as if Grace has filled her in at least, but glaring at him until he eats the food thrown down in front of him like a challenge isn’t the expected reaction. He hesitates to bring it up, wary of disturbing the relative peace. Biting the bullet, he asks her what she thinks of his ongoing plan.

“It’s a dumb fuckin’ idea and you’re an idiot for tryin’ it,” she tells him, stabbing at a roast potato with unneeded aggression. “But that ain’t anythin’ new. Try not to die tomorrow.”

“I’ll do my best.” He gives a wry smile, and is gratified when her scowl softens just the slightest.

They don’t let him leave until he finishes his plate, so it’s running late when he gets down to where the cultists are being held. Checking in on each room takes a good hour, especially when most are hesitant to speak with him, still carrying that tinge of reverence he wants to run away from. Still, he needs to make sure these people aren’t gonna turn on them the second they get the chance, and speaking with them is a good way of gauging the likelihood.

“When I’m back tomorrow, we’ll see about gradually reducing the restrictions,” he says to Michael and Alison - the woman who’d piped up the night before. Right now he’s considering them the sort of leaders of the cult group, or at least capable of keeping the rest informed of anything he says. Both have permission to move freely between the cells - escorted by a couple of guards - and they’re doing a decent job of keeping everyone calm.

Or maybe the cultists actually trust Rook to look after them, which is a terrifying thought.

He shakes it off. “It’s gonna be a difficult adjustment for everyone, so I’ll need you to set aside trying to convert people or anything like that. I can’t afford for fights to start breaking out here.”

“We understand,” Michael says quickly, a hesitant smile on his face. He stands more confidently now but there’s still that wide-eyed awe which makes Rook’s skin prickle. “You don’t have to worry about us. No one will go against your command.”

Rook barely hides a wince. “That’s- great.”

Alison, at least, is a little more low-key. She informs him that she’s trained as a doctor and she’ll gladly treat both cultists and the Resistance, mentioning that they also have a few nurses and people medically trained among them.

“Might be paradise on the other side of the Gate, but people still get ill and hurt themselves,” she says with a shrug. “Plus we’re gonna be down here for seven years. No use in havin’ the supplies if we ain’t trained in usin’ them.”

Practical. Good trait to have in an apocalypse. Maybe having the cultists around won’t be entirely a hassle.

He leaves them with the repeated assurance that they won’t be locked up for long. Then he checks in with the guards themselves, because hell, he can’t expect them to let go of their resentment just because he says so. Two hours later and he’s spoken with as many people as he can manage, subtly ensuring they’re all still willing to follow his lead and letting anyone vent who needs it.

He learns more names and face, reaffirms that yes, bombs are gonna drop any day now but they’ll be safe in the bunker, and no, he won’t be fighting the peggies anymore because he’s focusing on the immediate threat, but he’ll make sure they don’t lose anymore people because of the peggies. Repeats himself over and over, in different ways with new arguments, and finds that they’re willing to listen as soon as _they_ feel listened to.

Being good with people comes in handy here, but he’s lagging by the time he gets a minute to himself. Rook drops down into the leather desk chair and rubs a hand over his face. The room is John’s office in the bunker, far as he can tell. Spruced up compared to everywhere else, with a bedroom connected that’s nicer than any of the others he’s come across. Rook’s claimed it for himself and no one has objected yet. Gives him some breathing room at least.

Rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension built up there, Rook glances down at his watch. It’s late. Late enough that he should probably be sleeping. Too bad he’s still got shit to do. Staci brought him the logs for the supplies that fill the lower levels, and with the chaos of releasing and treating prisoners, as well as convincing the locals to migrate to the bunker and getting them set up, no one’s had chance to properly look through everything in the bunker yet. Apart from the guns of course, which was…predictable.

Gonna be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this is the last chapter I had completed from last year. Might always end up posting more - depends if inspiration strikes.


End file.
